


Between a Rock and a Hard Place

by Syntaniel



Series: The Long Road Home [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-01-31 07:27:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12677190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syntaniel/pseuds/Syntaniel
Summary: The last of the Long Road Home Series. It feels like it's been a long road to write and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the comments and kudos. Hopefully y'all will like the ending as much as you like the beginning - but there's still some travelling to go before the boys reach the end. A few more bits of Romany to encounter. A few more things to learn. ;) And of course, adventure to be had along the way.





	1. Chapter 1

"How's it feel?" Aramis eyed Athos skeptically as the older man rotated his shoulder with caution. 

 

The older man tilted his head, testing the stretch, and shrugged. "Serviceable." He hopped off the rickety table and reached for his leathers. 

 

"Good," the Spaniard smirked before jerking his chin at the door, "Go show d'Artagnan, so the lad can stop worrying about you."

 

Athos ducked his head as he scoffed, his face unreadable, but he moved towards the door regardless. He squinted as the rising sunlight hit his face. Porthos and d'Artagnan were in the yard, wrestling like boys in the dust.

 

Even as he approached, Porthos flipped the younger man, but d'Artagnan was fast and tricky as a fox on the hunt. He slithered out from Porthos' grip, popping up behind the older man, and sweeping his legs out from under him in one smooth movement, with no sign of any catching in his leg. Porthos' laughter rang out as dust billowed around him, "I yield, whelp! I yield." The big man rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, and wiping his face, "Well done, d'Art." His grin widened, "Let's get a drink; this is thirsty work, all this training." 

 

Athos relished the sound as d'Artagnan gave a laugh of his own, reaching a hand down to help the other up. The Gason's voice didn't carry like the booming echo of Porthos' but he must have assented for the two moved to leave the training ground. A quick detour secured some provisions and Athos reached their regular table just in time. 

 

D'Artagnan grinned when he saw him, almost as blinding as that initial flash of sunlight, "Athos! Did Aramis release you or did you escape?" 

 

The older man ducked his head to hide the tilt of his lips and threw an apple at the Gascon before tossing a matching one to Porthos, "I outrank him; therefore, I never escape." He straddled the bench before producing the bottle he'd snagged, flexing his shoulder absently as if to reassure himself of his recovery, "However, in this case, he let me go and, I suspect, will be following ready for food." 

 

There was a warmth in d'Artagnan's eyes that Athos could only call fond that deepened as Aramis joined them clearly after restocking his satchel. Porthos shined the apple against his chest as he launched into relating the tale of their epic wrestling match in a way that would make any orater proud. Shaking his head at the tale, d'Artagnan turned his attention to his own apple, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile as Porthos' words washed over him. His gaze turned contemplative as he clasped his small knife, turning the apple again before halving it with the sharp blade. 

 

The tones of Porthos' voice escalated as he tried to humbly describe how he'd thrown the end of the match in favor of their youngest and d'Artagnan's head jerked up as he decried him with a grin and a shout, throwing half the apple at the big man in protest. With a neat catch, Porthos snatched the apple from the air and took a great bite. Ruefully, d'Artagnan looked at what remained to him, the shine of the remaining seeds glistening in the sun, before joining in the general laughter. 

 

The peal of the vesper bells broke over the courtyard, a harbinger to the Captain's return from the Palace. He handed his reins over to one of the stable boys and moved their way, tapping the rolled up parchment in his hands as he walked. "Evening, gentlemen." He nodded, "Glad to see you're all up and about. Is Athos cleared for duty?" The last was pointedly directed at Aramis. 

 

Athos glared but Aramis ran a hand down his beard consideringly, "The wound itself was simply enough - struck only muscle and went right through. It's not fully recovered, he'll need to regain some strength," Athos' glare was reaching furious heights before the medic smiled and conceded  "But fit for duty, yes." 

 

"Good." Treville tapped the parchment again almost unconsciously, his tone short. "Report to the Palace tomorrow morning. The King and the Vicomte wish to speak with you."

 

Porthos cocked his head, "Is somet'ing wrong, Cap'in?" 

 

Working his jaw, Treville shook his head. "I've been researching crests with the King's steward to see if we can get any leads but," he waved the parchment, "We started a list of noble houses from France and Spain that could fit the fragments but so far, none of the ones that matched would have a reason. The steward's going to look further to see if there are any more candidates but..." he trailed off with a grimace. "He should have an update for me tomorrow. We'll meet with him after your audience with the King and the Vicomte."

 

The Musketeers collectively winced, bringing a smile to Treville's face, "Don't worry. As I promised, I've assigned Guillermo's squad to the Vicomte for the protection of himself and mines for the time being. They will return with him when his visit is done. The King has also made a declaration that if the Vicomte passes without direct heirs, the mines will revert to the crown regardless of the rules of inheritance. The Cardinal signed the exception this morning, so the Vicomte should be out of danger. Killing him now would not gain anyone the mines." 

 

"Just a fight," d'Artagnan murmured as Treville left them with a reminder to be at the Palace just past dawn.

 

The inseparables exchanged glances before Porthos ventured, "What d'ya think they want with us?"

 

"To give us high praise for our daring and fantastic work on the last mission?" Aramis proposed brightly.

 

Athos gave him a sardonic smile before commenting dryly, "Let us hope." 

 

"Better yet," Porthos cut in, "Let's toast to it. With more wine. And dinner! I'm starving." 

 

___

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to go up with the first one but as you likely noticed, I had some technical difficulties posting. So here, chapter 2 hard on the heels of the first one. ;) hope you enjoy.

 

The Royal Gardens were bright with the morning sun when the Musketeers arrived. The roses were wilting slightly now but still held some of their faded beauty. D'Artagnan's gaze caught on the gap in the hedges, his eyes darkening with memories, until Athos' shoulder bumped against his. The older man's head was canted towards him in question as he remarked dryly, "If you go tearing off into the bushes again, we may be forced to put a bell on you."

 

D'Artagnan chuffed a laugh, his eyes lightening again as Athos had intended. (Not that he hadn't contemplated putting a bell on him in truth but he resigned those thoughts to the same dark corner of his brain that wanted to hide d'Artagnan in a locked room every time he got hurt.) 

 

There was double the number of outer guard now and the Vicomte was lounging with the King in a splendid repose on the dais. He seemed to have taken royal favor as license to dress even more extravagantly as the gold satin brocade his 'day' jacket was made of glittered with tiny stones that d'Artagnan refused to identify. The King, never to be outdone, had dressed accordingly, the true gold thread shooting through his jacket a proclamation of its own. The combination, flanked by Guillermo's dark leather clad Musketeers and the bright frippery of the attendant footmen, almost offset the vapid expression on both men's faces. 

 

Seeing the inseparables approach, the Victome broke off, "My saviors! How glad I am to see you again!"

 

The King's smile broadcast his pleasure and possessiveness in equal measure. " _My_ Musketeers," the words were smug. "I am glad you could attend me this morning. Your actions in defense of the Vicomte have shown me once again that I am, as always, most correct to put my faith in my most loyal of soldiers." The Musketeers bowed as he waved a languid hand. "You are fully recovered?"

 

"We have all been cleared for duty, m'lord," Aramis responded as they straightened. 

 

"Good, good," Louis leaned forward, "I wished to congratulate you on your success and hear your opinion on whether or not my dear Vicomte will be safe in his return home." 

 

Exchanging looks with the others, Athos stepped forward, "All of the men who ambushed us in the forest are dead. We are still investigating who sent them." He paused a moment to choose his words more carefully, "If the motive was the mines, as it appears to have been, the... changes you have made should put him out of danger." 

 

The King's head bobbed in agreement with his report as he turned to the Vicomte, "You see, my friend? You've had it now from the Captain of my garrison and my Lieutenant. And I have appointed some of my loyal men to see you home and guard you for a few month's time until we are sure of your safety. I trust that is sufficient?" While his tone started out flippant, it ended a warning. 

 

Eying the inseparables, the Vicomte tongued his lip, moistening them before starting tentatively, "If I could have these men, the ones who have saved me already..." 

 

The words trailed off as Louis was already shaking his dark curls, "Impossible. I will not be stripped of my champion and my best soldiers. I am sure the men my captain have picked for you will suffice." He did not bother to watch the Vicomte nod abjectly before turning back to the Inseparables. "The Vicomte tells me that there were gypsies involved in the forest." His nose wrinkled on the appellation as if the word itself were dirty. "What say you? I was thinking I need to order a new expulsion as my father did."

 

Besides Athos, d'Artagnan's whole body tensed and the older man shifted sideways to block the movement from sight as his hand closed about his wrist to pin him in place. Porthos barked out a laugh, deliberately loud, drawing the eye of the nobles, "Didn' see no gypsies but there was a handful of vagabonds livin' in the forest. The bandits put paid to them before we arrived. An' I'm sure they're long gone now." 

 

The careless tone of the flamboyantly spoken answer did it's job and the King subsided. "Very well then." He turned absently to view a plate of sweets one of the footman produced - Jehan, d'Artagnan noted with some surprise - thoroughly distracted by the treats. "I believe the Captain awaits you in the steward's library. You may attend him."

 

Bowing, the Musketeers left the garden, though Athos kept his hand around d'Artagnan's wrist until they reentered the Palace. Once through the door, eyes darting about to ensure their privacy, d'Artagnan ripped his hand away, fear and fury raging through his eyes like fire. "I told you," he nearly spat the words. "Any vagabond or bandit immediately become a gypsy and then there's only expulsion or worse."

 

The words were savage but Athos corralled him against a wall without hesitation, keeping his response low so it couldn't be overheard, "And Porthos has already distracted him from that." Aramis and Porthos moved to create a human shield in case of a wandering eye as Athos continued, "We _will_ find out who was behind this. Once there is someone to blame, the King will forget about anything else." The fire seemed to drain out him all at once and Athos wanted to shake him. "He will not find out about you, I swear it." 

 

D'Artagnan's hands worked futilely at his side but he didn't try to break away. "Jehan," he whispered, his eyes dark with an almost resigned terror, "Juliana."

 

Athos' chest ached hollowly at the thought of how long d'Artagnan must have been living with this doom over his head and he wanted to punch something. He leaned in close enough to hear the harshness of d'Artagnan's breath, locking the other man's eyes with his own steely glare, "If either of them even hints at it, I will kill them myself." He dropped the gaze before he revealed too much and took a deep breath. "We will stand with you, d'Artagnan. You are not alone in this. But do _not_ run from us."

 

He hadn't realized how much he'd feared exactly that until the words left his mouth and he closed his eyes against the knowledge. A beat passed. And then another. And then d'Artagnan's forehead touched his as he said shakily, "I guess that's the all for one part."

 

Relief chuffed a laugh out of the older man as he nodded, "Yes."

 

He looked up for a minute, almost as if he would say something else, when Porthos cleared his throat. "The Cap'n..." The words were almost apologetic but they didn't stop Aramis from glaring at him. 

 

Athos straightened, tugging at his leathers, and d'Artagnan nodded. "Let's not keep the Captain waiting."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just angst with very little plot. I was going to wait to post it till I finished the next section so there would be some more plot to wash it down with but it's over 1000 words so yeah, here. The comments and kudos were much appreciated. I'm really glad y'all are enjoying this so far.

 

"I don't have any better news for you today," the growl in the Captain's voice vibrated with frustration as he threw a book to the table with a resounding thump. The Musketeers entered the steward's library cautiously until the Captain shot them an annoyed glare. "Don't mince around the door." He pushed a list across the desk to them, "Any possible match for the sigil that we could find on the continent. It's too long to be any help to start with but it might be of use later." He gave them an arch look, "I would not ask the steward for any favors any time soon. I think this might have driven him to drink."

 

Athos ran his eyes down the list before passing it to the others, "Your orders, Captain?"

 

"I assume you came from the King?" Treville didn't wait for their response. "The Vicomte leaves tomorrow, and his new guard with him, so starting at dawn, I want you at the Palace until we know if there's any danger to the King himself." 

 

"You think this was a larger plot to get at the King?" Aramis mused as he glanced over the list, handing it to Porthos. "The bandits in the forest seemed focused on the Vicomte - presumably for the mines."

 

Treville tilted his head, rubbing his forehead as he looked down at the map in front of him, "Stripping the crown of the mines, even for a short time, would cost untold revenue and possibly lead to revolution."

 

Eyes resigned in their fear flashed through d'Artagnan's mind. "They certainly weren't the masterminds. Whoever their Captain was," d'Artagnan mused, "he was terrified of someone."

 

Treville's gaze sharpened at the tone of d'Artagnan's voice, still rough from his earlier shock, but Athos seemed more relieved that he was speaking than anything so he went on. "Exactly. Without answer, we'll stay alert. Our first priority is always the King." 

 

The words had a solemn ring in the small room, but Porthos couldn't help but smile smugly, "Starting tomorrow mornin' Cap'ain?" Treville gave an aggravated sigh but it only turned the smirk into a grin, "So we're at liberty tonight, then?"

 

"... Yes." Though he knew it wouldn't do any good, Treville pinned them with a fierce glare, "But I want you to report here by dawn."

__

 

The tavern had a warm glow beget by the firepit dug into its center. It was crowded enough to create a comforting cocoon of privacy, the murmurs of others like a wall of sound, but not so crowded that their preferred table in the corner was at risk. Though Aramis' smile certainly wasn't his best effort, it was charming enough that the barmaid met them at the table with two bottles already in hand. 

 

Athos took one with a sparse nod of gratitude as he slouched over the corner with the cool stone of the wall against his shoulder. D'Artagnan slid in next to him, close enough that he could feel the heat of him even without touching. Straddling the bench across from them, Porthos signaled for food as Aramis flung himself down alongside, starting up a merry banter with the blushing barmaid. 

 

Food took the place of the barmaid and occupied their attention for a short while but Athos did not even make a pretense of eating, merely kept taking long pulls from the bottle and glowering. The third time he looked up with a glare, d'Artagnan winced, playing with his spoon in the soup. "I'm sorry," the words were low and tinged with something that sounded like shame. 

 

Aramis and Porthos exchanged looks but Athos responded first. "You were going to run." The words were blunt, revealing none of the almost visceral horror that Athos had felt at that realization back at the Palace. The wine threatened to turn sour in his gut and he held his composure only barely.

 

"I..." the hesitation on his face made d'Artagnan look younger. "I don't know what I was going to do." He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at them, "I wasn't prepared for that." He could remember the fear that had washed over him when the King had asked the question. It had been drilled into him as a child with anything regarding his mother - _be silent, be secret, be safe_. Some part of him, he realized, had been posed to run ever since the others had first heard about his heritage, no matter what they said to him.

 

Sympathy was writ plain on Aramis' face, though d'Artagnan didn't look up to see it, even when the other man spoke. "You're a Musketeer now, d'Artagnan."

 

"The King's champion," Porthos added, waving his spoon. 

 

"Even beyond the fact that the brotherhood will stand by you, and we will," Aramis added pointedly before going on, "That is a powerful protection." 

 

"You don't understand," d'Artagnan shook his head but Athos interrupted. 

 

"You are safe." The words were fierce though his expression didn't change. "We would stand by you regardless but he has shown you favor publicly. To decry you now for your birth would be a loss of face he cannot afford." Athos lifted the wine again as the others blinked at him. 

 

"You know," Porthos pointed his spoon at the older man, "It's easy t' ferget that you used to be noble until you think like that." 

 

"He's right," Aramis spoke to d'Artagnan, ignoring Porthos, "We will stand by you. Though that repugnant little worm of a footman seemed to be more interested in distracting him than giving you away. He may have learned something."

 

"You don't understand!" The words cut through the noise of the tavern for a moment as d'Artagnan slammed his hand on the table. Embarrassed, he subsided and, after a moment, the noise reasserted itself when it proved that no fight had erupted. 

 

"What don' we understand?" there was a gentleness in Porthos' voice that was at odds with his size. He knew something after all, of the fear of an outcaste. 

 

"It isnt only about me." His chest pulled in as if struck but he determinedly did not move, just hunched his shoulders further, leaning hard on the rough grain of the wood. "You don't know what it's like..." d'Artagnan moved the spoon again though he clearly was no longer seeing the soup, "I can't be the cause of a new expulsion. I can't..." He shook his head, "I can't live with that." 

 

"You heard the Phuri Dae," Aramis tried for a smile, "They can go and find other clans to join. There's always a place to hide."

 

The laugh that came from d'Artagnan then was surprisingly bitter, "It's not so easy for a clan to escape a town, a country, as it is for you to escape a single angry husband, Aramis." He poured a glass of wine for himself slowly, watching the firelight glint off the red liquid. "People die in expulsions." 

 

The words were heavy with something that had Athos looking at the younger man sharply, "The last expulsion was before you were born." The tone was caught between question and command but d'Artagnan shook his head, though it wasn't clear if it was a denial or refusal. Frustration burned in Athos' chest but he'd run up against the wall of d'Artagnan's stubbornness before and he could see refusal in every line of the Gascon's face. "It's a moot point anyway - it won't come to that." He fought the urge to growl and instead finished off his bottle of wine before pushing himself up from the table, the emotion that was absent from his face writ clear in every tense line of his body, "We need more wine."

 

D'Artagnan watched him as he stalked off, peering up from beneath a curtain of hair with a sick expression. "He'll be all right," Porthos still had that kind tone in his voice. The sympathy of someone who knew something of what it was to be hunted. "You know 'e worries. Loudly."

 

Aramis gave him a grin, "Especially when it comes to you." The grin turned to mock affront when Porthos' hand smacked the back of his head. By the time Athos returned with more wine, the two men were performing the job of distraction admirably, loudly working themselves up to a marksmanship contest. 

 

Athos didn't say anything on his return, but d'Artagnan read the mute apology in the line of the leg that pressed against his shortly thereafter. The younger man reached for the bottle of wine, his leathers pulling up with the movement, and the silver shine of a scar catching the light. He rubbed it for a second as his mouth worked a few times, but the words were trapped in his chest and he couldn't force them out. That story was trapped between his teeth but there had to be something he give.

 

His fingers traced the rim of his wine glass as he stared into the liquid.  Before Athos could ask again, d'Artagnan hesitantly offered what he could, "I used to watch them." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, "The women and children would fill the jugs in the morning. I wasn't allowed to help, but I would watch. " His fingers trailed around the rim again. Dipping into it, he turned his palm to let a few drops fall where they lay, glistening, on the table. "They'd spill a few drops for every jug; an offering to the wodna zena, the water woman. A plea for her blessing. After..."

As he took a carefully controlled breath, Athos could see d'Artagnan mentally backing away from whatever 'after' was as he rolled his neck, "At home, for years, I would spill the water every time I was sent to fetch it, hoping she would accept it."'

 

Carefully, Athos ventured to ask, "Why weren't you allowed to help?"

 

D'Artagnan's lips twisted into something akin to a smile as he thumbed one of the drops on the table, leaving a smear the color of rubies in the light. "I was mahrim. Unclean, because my father wasn't one of them." 

 

Temper flaring, Athos swallowed his first response. And his second. D'Artagnan would surely misinterpret it. "You are not alone, d'Artagnan," he settled for murmuring no matter how inadequate the words seemed. Athos shifted slightly to press his arm against the curve of his side, as a reminder that he wasn't leaving, hoping the constant contact would serve to reinforce the absurdity of anyone thinking their brightest member could in any way be unworthy. It seemed as if he was holding his breath until he felt the pressure of the younger man leaning back against him.

 

They drank in companionable silence, unmoving, until it was time to drag Porthos and Aramis back to the garrison. 

___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No notes this time since I think I explained everything that needed it in the text. If I missed one or you want more information, let me know and I'll circle back to it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> /peeks out from the corner of the holiday debris/ hi y'all. Sorry this took so long. The holiday was... crazy. And I had a fantastic houseguest before that who trumped finishing this section. But I hope you enjoy. Thanks again and always for the comments and kudos. They are infinitely appreciated.  
> There are a bunch of notes at the end but it's mostly geeky stuff that I hope you'll forgive me for.   
> And with that, onward for the plot, it thickens!

 

"Your majesty, we need to discuss tomorrow." The Musketeers had been largely ignoring the King's secretary as he made his obeisance until he spoke. D'Artagnan suspected the King had been ignoring him as well given the blank look he gave the man. "The Festival of Mary?" the secretary had a long suffering tone in his voice as he prodded gently. "With the cathedral at Notre Dame undergoing renovations, you need to decide if you wish to have the ceremonies at the Basilica of St. Denis or at St. Genevieve."

 

"Your majesty," Aramis interrupted smoothly, fingering his mustache, "Are you sure you wish to proceed given the... circumstances?"

 

Louis scoffed, "Did we not just ensure yesterday that the reasons for caution are moot now?" Though both d'Artagnan and Aramis opened their mouth to correct him, the King did not give them the chance. "It is important for the people to see their King on such a day and I will not dishonor the Holy Mother by interrupting the honors I had planned in her name." 

 

D'Artagnan was reasonably sure that 'it is important for the people' was Louis' childish version of 'I'm going to do it and I don't care what you say.' He glanced to Athos, but by the resigned look on the older man's face, he agreed. He resisted the urge to sigh, "Then we will have to accompany you, my lord. We'll arrange for extra guards with the Captain as well."

 

A surprisingly amiable look crossed over the King's face as he looked fondly at his champion, "You Musketeers worry like old women." He waved a hand with a laugh as they made to protest, "Make whatever arrangements you see fit, but I will attend the services at Saint Denis. I command it."

 

Accepting defeat, d'Aartagnan bowed. Athos shook his head but it was more than clear there was no point in arguing with the King. They had only a broken piece of a crest to show that there was indeed any larger plot to the incident in Chatellerault and nothing to show this was in truth another plot against the crown itself, rather than just the Vicomte. If there was more, a connection to the prior duc du Nivernais, anything to show a larger threat other than Treville's speculation, they could have persisted, or at least Treville could have made the argument and maybe even won; Louis had vivid memories of how his father died. But with what they had...

 

It made d'Artagnan uneasy. Ever since Jehan had arrived, the feeling of impending doom would not let him go and it would not be dispelled so easily as some dead men in a forest. He could only bow to his King's wishes and do his duty. But that didn't mean they wouldn't be watching very carefully indeed. _Pay attention, little love._  His mother's words had served him well in the woods and he had no intention of disregarding them now.

__

 

The festival day dawned as sunny as anyone could wish. The crowd, happy enough to have an excuse for a holiday, had thrown themselves into the procession with glee - carrying the statute of Mary from its usual place at Notre Dame to Saint Denis in a profusion of last of the summer flowers. Younger children darted in and out of the processional while older ones hawked their parent's wares in the streets. 

 

Treville had talked the King into forgoing the procession itself for merely being seen at the services but he had still lined the streets with Musketeers, both in uniform and not. The Inseparables flanked the door to the Basilica, waiting to escort the King inside as they scanned the crowds for any sign of danger. 

 

The King's carriage clattered into the square in a cavalcade of glittering excess. The attendant Musketeers created a dark contrast with their burnished leathers shining in the sun. Had the Inseparables been watching, even they might have found it an impressive sight but their eyes were solidly on the surrounding crowd. 

 

The footman hopped off the carriage to attend to the doors and the Musketeers who had accompanied the carriage fanned out as planned to cover the square. D'Artagnan squinted in the glare from his place at the bottom of the steps, dark eyes scanning the crowd and the rooftops, as did Porthos' across from him. He could see the tense line of Athos' shoulders as he scowled from the top of the steps, where he and Aramis formed the last line of defense before the entrance to the Basilica as they waited for the King. 

 

Louis alighted from the carriage, waving to the people as he stepped onto the ground, until the Queen was handed out to join him. Arm in arm, their majesties turned to enter the church and the carriage kicked into motion. 

 

The rattling of the carriage disguised the sound but d'Artagnan saw more than heard the object fly into the square. The spark of flame and trail of smoke was distinctive and the Musketeers in the square bolted into action. More smoke poured into the square and, with the carriage already in motion, the Musketeers closest to the King were rushing him towards the church stairs.

 

At the stairs, d'Artagnan's first impulse was to move towards the object, but the thought raced across his mind:  _If that was the attack, it would have already exploded._

_Distance, distract, downplay_.

 

D'Artagnan's blade was in his hand, like it was an extension of his arm, as his eyes raked furiously over the crowds. _If that's the distraction, then the attack..._  In a moment he would forever curse for his slowness, he whirled back towards the church. 

 

Like deja vu, he saw again the tell tale glint of metal - the cap on a small crossbow held by a man in a too familiar black uniform, shielded by the doors of the Basilica. Something in his face, a dawning horror, must have alerted Athos for the older man spun around, lunging into the doorway with his sword already drawn. D'Artagnan felt more than heard the shout leave his own throat as he flung himself up the stairs. 

 

Too late. The sharp twang of the crossbow was lost in the chaos of the square but the bright splash of blood seared itself on d'Artagnan's corneas as the bolt winged the older man's forearm, turning it from its path so that a heart blow to the King buried itself in hip instead. 

 

Porthos' shifted with a growl, turning himself into a wall between the Basilica and the King. D'Artagnan could see his mouth moving and expected that the big man was calling for the carriage to stop but all he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears as he ran up the stairs. He darted into the Basilica, taking only a second, long enough to see Athos staggering to his feet, bloody forearm gripped tight, before clattering down the alley. 

 

The would be assassin swung around the apse and, to d'Artagnan's surprise, clambered up the stairs to the bell tower. The Gascon's lungs were burning as he catapulted himself up the stairs behind him, taking them two at a time, his sword gripped so tightly in his hand he had lost all feeling in his fingers.

 

But his efforts were in vain. The attacker didn't even pause at the top of the tower, running straight off the edge. D'Artagnan's own momentum was such that he had to fling himself at a support column to keep from following him. The screams of the townspeople down below left him no doubt as to the outcome but still, he looked over the edge. On the pavement, the splayed limbs of the broken man told true his ultimate escape, even as the red soaked into the black fabric of his clothes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Using the word gyspy in speech might be pushing accuracy a bit - but it did come into usage in the mid 1500's so it's not outside the realm of possibility.
> 
> *The Festival of Mary would be more commonly known as the Assumption of Mary. Mary is important, not just to the French as Catholics, but to the Rom as well who frequently would make a pilgramage to Les Saintes Maries de la Mer where their festival of mary's also included the honoring of Saint Sarah - the patron saint of gypsies. But she was especially important to Louis. In fact, he ultimately consecrates himself and the royal family in her name which is part of what makes the celebration of the Assumption of Mary such a large thing in France. 
> 
> *A note on churches just because I'm a huge nerd: Notre Dame was damaged in 1548 by Huguenots for displaying excessive idolatry. It turned out to be a good thing in the end as the subsequent renovations undertook to "modernize" the church and ensure it was able to withstand the damage of years. I'm unclear if those renovations and repairs were still going on but I've seen references to them taking nearly a century to complete so I'm going to assume they were mostly because, as impressive as Notre Dame is, it's overused. ;) The Basilica of Saint Denis was one of the first magnificent examples of gothic architecture and it was built on a site that had contained a church/abbey/monument since the time of Charlemagne. It so impressed the King of Paris at the time it was built that since then, it became the resting place for French Kings and their families (at least until the French Revolution) and is sometimes referred to as the Royal Necropolis. Saint Genevieve is known today at the Pantheon.
> 
> * Alley, or yle, is the actual name for the side aisles in a cathedral or basilica. Apse is the name for the recess, usually at the front or eastern end of the church, typically a polygonal or semicircle, that contains the altar.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so a short update but I felt bad for not updating for so long. Also, for people for whom it's a thing, there's a bit of a cliffie. and such a long way to go....  
> and I appreciate the comments and kudos. Ever so much lately. So thank you.

Athos was the first thing d'Artagnan saw when he returned to the square, the older man crouched over the body while he rifled through the black tunic. A quick glance around the square showed it bristling with armed Musketeers but lacking two familiar faces and a carriage. D'Artagnan made the logical assumption as he knelt down next to Athos, still breathing hard from the chase, "Aramis and Porthos took the King?"

Absently, Athos nodded, squinting as he peeled back the tunic, "Back to the Palace. The wound didn't appear to be too severe but his majesty was distressed. He tore out the bolt and Aramis wanted a cleaner place to stitch it up." Finding nothing worthwhile on the body, Athos flung back the fabric with a growl, before sharp eyes raked over d'Artagnan.

The Gascon held both hands open, "I'm not the one bleeding." The dark head nodded at Athos' arm, red already showing through the scarf that had clearly been hastily applied as a bandage. "Are you all right? That arm seems a bit cursed lately."

Athos' scowl only deepened at the words and he tried to brush off the concern as he stood. "Just a scratch." It would have been more convincing had he not winced when he moved the arm.

D'Artagnan was suddenly there, gloved hands gentle on the injured arm as he inspected the dressing. "Aramis didn't have time to look at this did he?" he murmured as he rewrapped it properly, tying off the ends securely.

Consternation flickered over Athos' face, "The King was injured. He was the priority. I'm fine."

D'Artagnan looked over him critically but, other than a bit of understandable paleness and the obvious wound, could see nothing else out of the ordinary. "I'm still setting Aramis on you as soon as we get back." The older man grumbled but didn't bother to protest - Aramis and Porthos had both likely seen him bleeding before they went off with the King. He was unlikely to escape Aramis no matter what. It was only a matter of delay.

The clatter of horse hooves against the cobblestones startled them apart as the ring of Musketters parted to allow in the Captain. The man looked every bit of his years as he moved forward, worry wearing deep lines into his weathered skin. His eyes were shadowed as he joined the two men, "What do you have?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, glancing back down at the body, "Nothing identifying." He chewed on the inside of his lip as he looked up to the Captain, jaw tight with tension, "I think it's the same group though." He pointed down to the black clothes, "Same theme - black clothes, no crest, no jewelry." Brown eyes cast a glance back up at the tower, "Same fanatical dedication." He looked back to the Captain, clearly disturbed, "He ran straight off the roof, Captain. He might have been able to out run me on the rooftops, there's always a chance, but he didn't even try. Just flung himself off."

"We'll have to strip the body to be sure," Athos commented, "See if we can find any marks on the body that might help." His voice was thin, bringing the full force of d'Artagnan's concern back to him. He scowled but it only made the paleness of his skin more apparent.

"We need to get you to Aramis," d'Artagnan's voice was almost a command. The Captain affirmed it before Athos could refuse, detailing some of the others to get a wagon to transport the body. Taking a last hard look around the square, d'Artagnan's eyes caught on a stain of red on the cobbles. The discarded bolt lay in a pool of royal blood. Pay attention, little love. He'd never know what made him go over, but he crouched next to the bolt, blood staining the tips of his glove as he picked it up.

"Athos!" The word was strangled as d'Artagnan suddenly appeared by the older man's side, moving so swiftly it was as if he had appeared there by magic. "We have to go. Now." He'd gone hollow eyed in his fear and the sound of it had both the Captain and Athos staring at him in concern, even as the older man reached out.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos' hand clasped around his elbow and d'Artagnan used that to start pulling the older man towards the horses. There was something wild in his eyes that chilled him down to his bones but the Gascon didn't stop. "D'Artagnan?!" Athos set his stance, finally pulling d'Artagnan around to face him.

"Athos," fathomless dark eyes met his as the younger held out the bolt still clutched in his hands. Athos stared blankly for a moment until d'Artagnan rubbed the fingers of his glove together - a fine residue flaking off the leather. "I think the bolt was poisoned."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. Sorry this took me so long. I got a bit distracted by something I intend to ultimately publish. But if I haven't scared you all off with infrequent updating, here's the next bit. ;) Comments and kudos are always appreciated.

"D'Artagnan." The Gascon didn't turn, didn't pause, just continued dragging Athos through the Halls of the palace like a recalcitrant cow. "D'Artagnan!"

The sharp tone of voice bought him a moment's relief but in truth, d'Artagnan just adjusted his grip and plowed on, "We have to tell Aramis." The younger man hadn't stopped prodding him since they'd left the square, his shoulders set as a mule in harness. The bolt was still clutched in his glove, held out from his body as if he would have it as far from Athos as possible - as if the damage had not already been done. 

"You're going to cause a panic," the older man murmured, pulling back slightly without pulling away. "We don't know that it's poison. I feel fine." As if to make a liar out of him, the room spun slightly but Athos couldn't be sure if that was just from the sudden haste or from... anything else.

D'Artagnan threw a dark scowl over his shoulder at Athos, his eyes shadowed. "I swear to God, Athos, I will drag you if I have to." He shook the bolt in his glove, though Athos noted he didn't bring it any closer to him, "Aramis needs to see this and you. If it's nothing, I'll buy you a bottle of wine to make it up to you." 

A softness crept in, not to Athos' expression which was as neutral as usual, but to his eyes, "I'm holding you to that." 

In the panicked whirl of his own head, without missing a step, d'Artagnan thought that if it was nothing, he'd best off buy them both a barrel because this, this fear, this terror was going to eat a hole inside him that a bottle had no chance of filling.  
__  
"Your majesty," Aramis' voice sounded worn and thin even through the door as they approached, "I would not advise you to mix that much wine with Dr. Devaroux's pain medicine."

Athos nearly turned right then at the whine of the King's reply, but d'Artagnan was implacable, barreling through the door without waiting for the attendant footmen to open it. Aramis looked up in shock and the King took advantage of his distraction to gulp down the glass of wine. A childish triumph washed over his face only to be interrupted by a howl of pain as he jarred his leg. Cold cloth in hand, Aramis moved to still him even as Porthos' winced at the sound. The King settled, glaring resentfully at the whole room before his gaze came to rest on d'Artagnan, "I hope you killed the malfeasant who caused this." 

D'Artagnan gave him a short bow of assent, "Your attacker is dead, your majesty." He straightened, eyes already locked on Aramis, and kept speaking before the King could draw another breath, "Your pardon, your Majesty, but I need to borrow Aramis for a moment." His eyes shot over to Porthos, darting a quick glance down at the King, and the bigger man nodded, moving between them to form a kind of wall as Aramis drew d'Artagnan and Athos off to the side of the room. 

Proving Athos' previous supposition correct, Aramis' attention immediately turned to the older man's wounded arm. "How badly are you hurt?" Without waiting for an answer that he likely wouldn't have trusted anyway, Aramis busied about the bandage, eying the wound with sharp eyes. "We may have gotten lucky here. It's a bad graze but just a graze."

"Aramis." The barely restrained panic in d'Artagnan's voice drew the medic's startled eyes. The younger man was holding a bloody crossbow bolt to him, "I... found this at the square."

Confusion wrinkled the other man's brow, "Yes, the King pulled it out before I could stop him. Then it was all I could do to stop the bleeding."

Daring a quick glance back at the King to ensure Porthos still had the royal attention as he provided the King with yet another glass of wine, d'Artagnan shook his head, dark hair falling over his eyes as he hissed, "Aramis." For a long moment, he thought he would have to spell it out directly and risk being overheard. As a last ditch effort, he shoved the bolt towards Aramis' again and this time, the marksman's sharp eyes caught the waxy residue staining d'Artagnan's gloves. 

"Dios mio!" His eyes cut from the bolt to Athos, before realization dawned and he looked in horror at the King. For a beat, his brain raced with the implications... Athos... The King... And then his training reasserted itself and Aramis took a steadying breath before taking over. "Put it on the side table, by the fire," he ordered curtly, bare hand going to Athos' forehead. "And take off your gloves as well. If it can be absorbed through the skin, it can go through leather." 

"I feel fine," Athos murmured, keeping his voice low so the King could not overhear. 

Aramis scoffed, "As if you know the meaning of that word any better than our young Gascon." He peered closely at his pupils as his hand felt the glands at his neck. "You're pale," the medic noted, "but that could be blood loss. Anything else?"

Dark eyes warned of dire consequences if he prevaricated and Athos sighed, "I had a... moment of dizziness in the hall." 

Aramis glared as if he could get answers by force of will but ultimately he shook his head, curls falling askew, as his lips pressed into a frustrated line. "That could be blood loss as well. I don't see anything that would indicate poison." He chewed the corner of his lip but as he opened his mouth to speak again, Porthos' voice cut across the room. 

"Aramis!" The big man was hunched over the bed, the King gasping in his arms, the wine glass shaking in his hand before spilling red over the coverlet. 

The medic was there in a moment, his voice calm and steady as his hand rested on the King's wrist. He cocked his head, eyes unfocusing and lips moving slightly as he tracked the heartbeats. Fingers still firmly on Louis' pulse, Aramis turned to face him full on, "You're having palpitations, your Majest. I need you to breathe with me." He took several exaggerated deep breaths, nodding in approval as Louis' chest started to stutter into rhythm. "That's it. Deep breath. Breathe through it."

He glanced over his shoulder at Porthos, jerking his head at his bag, "In my bag, there's some hawthorne wrapped in linen. Dried red berries with a green leaf.*" Still smiling encouragingly at the King, he kept on with the close steady breaths even after the hawthorne was given until Louis gave a shaky nod.

"I'm all right now, Aramis. Thank you." The King leaned back with wide eyes. "What was that?"

"It could just be because of the shock to your system, your Majesty," Aramis said gently, though there was pinch to his brow that belied his words. Deep in thought, he moved to go to his bag himself, jostling the bedclothes and allowing a swath of sunlight to spill over the bedclothes. 

Scant seconds after the sunlight touched the King, he jerked his hand back with a cry that cause Aramis to spin back around, "Your Majesty?!"

"It burned!" Horror stricken, Louis waved his reddening hand at the patch of sunlight. "The sunlight burned!!"

Exchanging a confused glance with Porthos, d'Artagnan moved quickly to shift the curtain closed again while Aramis murmured comforting words at the King. With him bent over the royal distracting him, Athos narrowed his eyes. With an almost hostile look of suspicion, he moved closer to d'Artagnan, taking off his glove and extending his hand into the sunlight. The wince that crossed his face was an answer in and of itself. 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Note: While there has been some scant evidence to show that Hawthorne may indeed help palpitations/arythmia and it was used in the past that way, I am not in any way advocating that anyone try to treat any heart condition without consulting a doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I had intended to get us to the action at this point but I ended up scrapping the chapter I had written and in the new version everyone decided they wanted far more angst first. Thank you all for the comments and kudos, they kept me going through the revisions. There is action to come, I swear.

 

Well over an hour later, Aramis was still closed in the King's chambers with Doctor Devauroux. The physician had been summoned after the palpitations and the two men had been testing the King and the bolt thoroughly. A fact Athos would have been more supportive of if they hadn't confined him to the antechamber as well. He'd shown no sign of the palpitations but neither man had cared. Next to him, d'Artagnan's brow was furrowed as he paced, the corner of his lip drawn between his teeth. Scowling at the room in general, Athos took another swig of wine - at least they had not denied him that.

 

Sighting the scowl from across the room, where he was - not coincidentally - leaning next to the door, Porthos grinned, "Come on, fearless leader. We've been locked up in worse places." 

 

D'Artagnan snorted, shrugging when Athos gave him a wounded look, "He's not wrong." The Gascon fingered the velvet drapes he was hovering around, tucking them more firmly behind the settee they were using to pin them shut. The room seemed unnaturally dark with the heavy drapes drawn, the light of the fire flickering as if it were full night, though the gilted clock said only a few scant hours had passed since the churchyard.

 

Athos only glared harder as his fingers flexed on the wineskin, the red bandage on his forearm almost glaring against his pale skin. "You," he said pointedly, "are not stuck here." The words were almost venomous. "I have been quarantined."

 

"Awww," Porthos drawled as he folded his arms over his chest, unperturbed by the older man's mood. "Now you know that one," he nodded at d'Artagnan, "Ain't going t' leave your side for a month of Sundays after this. And I wasn't going to leave him t' suffer alone."

 

The former comte had no more suitable response to that than a growl as he drained the last of the skin and tossed it roughly to the table. He was giving it a good effort but d'Artagnan could see how pale he'd become, even more so than his usual wont. 

 

The younger man chewed on a corner of his thumb absently as his fingers flicked the edge of the curtain. He stared unseeing at the palace grounds, trying to figure out why this felt so much like doom and a familiar doom at that. Was it just that he had been expecting the worst for so long? In the back of his mind, a memory whispered in the rice paper tones of an old woman's voice, "...you must keep an eye on him. If he is exposed to such evil again, I do not know that even that will save him." The wineskin thudded against his hip with a solid thwack, startling him away from the window, though his hand reflexively closed the curtain as he moved. 

 

Athos didn't bother to try to hide the smug curl of his lips and it made a sharp contrast to the worry written in the lines of his face. Before d'Artagnan could draw breath to respond, the door to the King's chambers opened, drawing everyone's full attention in an instant.

 

Under dark disheveled curls, Aramis was wan but intent as he bustled forward, going straight to Athos, ignoring the flinch as he leaned straight into the man's face. 

 

"Aramis, what..." The words cut off as Aramis pulled up Athos' eyelids, the older man swatting at his hands. 

 

Muttering under his breath almost angrily, the Spaniard whirled around as if to return to the King's chambers when d'Artagnan's hand closed firmly about his sleeve. "Aramis." The word was a plea. 

 

The medic ran his other hand through his hair, disordering the curls further, but he didn't pull away from the younger man's grip. "I don't know. The King thinks it's a curse." Porthos snorted in the background and Aramis gave a bitter twist of his lips, "Devaroux still thinks it may be poison, though he's unsure which." He chewed on his mustache as he looked worriedly back at Athos. "Since they haven't worsened, he thinks it was diluted enough between the two of them that it won't be fatal."

 

D'Artagnan cocked his head to examine Aramis' expression, "You don't agree." It wasn't a question. Horror filled his expression, "What are you thinking Aramis? You can't possibly believe this was some kind of witchcraft."

 

"Of course not. But..." Dark eyes turned to his and d'Artagnan saw stark fear there for a moment before the medic swallowed it. Shades of pity crossed over Aramis' face as he repeated deliberately, " I don't know, d'Artagnan." He rubbed his free hand over his face. "There are poisons that could cause the palpitations. But I've never heard of one that causes a reaction with the sun. If I had to guess..."

 

D'Artagnan fought the urge to shake him as Aramis trailed off. "What, Aramis? There was something on that arrow. If it wasn't poison...?"

 

There was something shadowed lurking in Aramis' gaze as he glanced over to Porthos at the door. "There's an old trick - a dishonorable one," he hastened to add, "but I've heard of similar tactics being used before..." He trailed off as he realized where he'd heard of its use before but d'Artagnan had already followed the thought.

 

"During the last expulsion." The bitterness in his voice was thick enough to cut. He turned away so they couldn't see it echoed on his face, hip leaning against the wing of Athos' chair. 

 

Eyeing him warily, Aramis gave a reluctant nod, "It has been used on cities under siege as well. Rub blankets on the sores of the ill or the sickly fluids and send them into the city. Or infect a prisoner and allow them to 'escape' back to their people."

 

There was an expression of disgust on Porthos' face that d'Artagnan hadn't seen since they'd run into the slaver. "The poor ain't got the luxury of being picky. Dey use t' blankets and start a plague. Once the illness runs its course, soldiers walk right in and there's no one fit t' stop them."

 

"You think they did the same with the bolt."

 

Nausea turned the Gascon's olive skin pale as he contemplated that but Athos spoke before he could recover, the older man's voice sharp with urgency as he bolted out of the chair, "Aramis! D'Artagnan was holding the bolt the whole way here!"

 

Aramis held up his hands in a placating gesture, "That's one of the reasons why Devaroux disagrees and believes it to be poison. D'Artagnan shows no signs of illness. Nor do we after spending so much time with the King. He feels that if it were a disease, especially one showing signs in the king so quickly, it would have spread with equal speed."

 

Shaking his head, d'Artagnan disregarded the concern for himself, "And what do you believe?"

 

The marksman's hand passed over the bandage on Athos' arm, resecuring the edge of the bandage to tighten it, "If it was something that infects only through direct contact with the blood or the humours...* Such things are poorly understood but it would explain why no one else is showing symptoms." His hand ghosted over Athos' shoulder and d'Artagnan could see in his mind's eye blood covering the leather in the flickering fire of a gypsy campsite. "If these are more of those men from the forest, as you and Athos thought, it could explain both incidents. That wound was deep and the ball sat in it for hours before we could treat it. If the ball had been coated in illness, it would explain why those symptoms were more severe so quickly."

 

Thoughts danced in d'Artagnan's eyes like lightning at the front of the storm, as he tensed, eager to have something concrete that could be done. "If you're right, then we need more of the Emundad."

 

Porthos' brow furrowed, "Could you find them again, d'Art?"

 

Before he finished the question, the younger man was already shaking his head, "I doubt it." He exhaled long and slow, frustration clear in every line of his body as the energy drained away as quickly as it had come. "And it would do us little good if I could. The Phuri Dae didn't know where it came from - she'd gotten hers as a gift from another clan and used it all that night." The weight of Athos' hand on his arm made d'Artagnan aware he was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides and he forcibly opened his hands to press them against his legs. 

 

"I could still be wrong," Aramis temporized, casting a troubled glance back at the King's chambers. "Doctor Devaroux is going to try one his strongest antidotes on the King. If it is poison, we should see some effect, even if it's not a total cure. And he is right, if it is poison, given that they're both still alive, it's unlikely to be fatal."

 

Athos' hand tightening was the only warning before the older man stumbled, his knees weakening. "Athos!" d'Artagnan startled as he steadied him, feeling the stuttering race of his heartbeat against his hands. 

 

The medic was by their side in a moment, helping to ease Athos back down into the chair. The older man was already taking slow steady breaths, though his pupils were blown wide. "That's it, my friend. Slow and steady." Even as he glanced up to call for Porthos, the bigger man was there, already holding more of the hawthorne berries from Aramis' bag.* 

 

The lieutenant chewed them without complaint, though it did nothing to ease the worry setting deep creases into Aramis' face. "Porthos," the medic shifted without taking his hand away from Athos' wrist, "Go and ask Dr. Devaroux to make a second preparation. Don't go into detail if you don't have to. The last thing we need is for the King to panic about curses and witchcraft again."

 

Swallowing down panic of his own, d'Artagnan found himself pacing the room, circling Athos' chair, trying to rack his brain for something, anything he could do. "I can set out and look for them. If there are any signs nearby, I might be able to find another clan even if I can't find them." He shook his head, "There was something... familiar about the emundad when she brought it out. I've been trying to place it but I must have seen it as a child. Maybe it's something all clans know of. If it is, any clan I find might be able to help." 

 

"Don't be foolish," Athos' voice was harsh as he dragged in a slow deliberate breath, glaring up at the Gascon. "There's far too many if's and might's in that plan. You're not going haring off looking for a random clan that may or may not be nearby and may or may not have what we need." 

 

The set of d'Artagnan's jaw promised a fight until Aramis looked over sympathetically. "He's right, lad. We," he stressed the word, "can't go off on something that tenuous. Not at this point." 

 

"Let's save dat for if we're desperate," Porthos' return cut off whatever intemperate comment d'Artagnan was going to make. "'e'd already made a second," he commented, handing Athos a cup with a wrinkled nose. "Enjoy dat." 

 

Grimacing, Athos took the cup and tossed it back, lip curling at the taste. "Now what?" d'Artagnan was nearly vibrating as his gaze shot between the older man and the medic, desperate for any task. 

 

"Now?" Aramis tilted his head, "Now, we wait. Whatever it is, we should know by morning."

 

Porthos shook his head as he pulled out a pack of cards, straddling the nearest chair, "Well then, who's up for a game?"

___

 

"Is there somet'ing out there?" Porthos asked hours later as he came up behind d'Artagnan on the settee, his voice low in the darkness, "You've been glaring at that window for awhile." Though he'd made an effort to telegraph his movements, the younger man still startled. Giving him a chance to collect himself, Porthos looked idly out but darkness lay on the glass like ink to his sight and he turned worried eyes back down. 

 

Athos remained fast asleep against the wall, hat tilted over his eyes, as he had been since the fourth hand. Before he'd commandeered the fainting couch for the same purpose, Aramis had said it was likely just a side effect of the antidote, nothing to worry about, but the words hadn't done much to ease d'Artagnan's worry and the usually energetic man had sat guard beside him, his eyes turned to the window as if it were a religious devotion. 

 

"'Dere something out there we need to be worried about?" The big man's reflection was blurred in the wavy glass of the window and the way his arms were crossed over his torso made it seem almost as if some great tree had risen up. 

 

"No, everything's quiet." The younger man grimaced, hanging his head, and hiding behind his hair in a way that put Porthos immediately on guard, "Been trying to remember." 

 

There was something lost in his tone, and Porthos prodded, "Remember?" A sliver of blue peeked out from under the rim of Athos' hat but the older man didn't say a word, didn't move. Not that Porthos thought his stillness fooled d'Artagnan, but it left him the illusion of privacy at least. 

 

"I know I've seen the Emundad before." The Gason's long fingers rubbed over his knuckles absently as he leaned his elbows onto his knees. His eyes stayed firmly on the black night though none of them were foolish enough to think he was seeing anything in the palace yard at that point. "I told you, I think, that my mother didn't want me to lose my heritage, even though she gave up her name and birthright when she went with my father." His tongue flicked out to wet suddenly dry lips. "She wanted me to know where I came from. She acted as she did for our safety but she was never ashamed. Not even..." He dragged in a breath and they could see him using the pause almost as a mental reset, dragging his thoughts back. "She wanted me to know. And so when the clan came close just after my tenth winter, she sent me with them. To travel with the wagons for a season or two. Learn the ways of the clan. I was desperate to go. Wild for the adventure and wanting to please her by learning everything I could." 

 

He winced and his gaze fell the floor for a long moment before fixing once again on the dark night. "I don't remember much of that time. Too much came... after. What I do remember is jumbled, fragments. Things like the water woman and planting certain wildflowers with my grandfather to mark a safe place to camp. But I am sure I've seen the emundad before. If I could just remember, maybe we would know where to find it." 

 

"It 'asn't come to dat," Porthos' words were gentle and d'Artagnan could feel the heat of him at his back. "We've got the best medic in the country looking after t'em both. And the Doctor." The younger man didn't seem to hear the words at all. His eyes stayed glued to the dark as he strained back in his memory for something just out of grasp. 

 

"What _do_ you remember?" Aramis' kept his voice low, almost a murmur as he joined them, perching on the back of the settee. "Tell us about it. Maybe it will bring more back. What makes you think you had seen it before?" 

 

Athos kept his silence but pressed his leg against d'Artagnan's side in silent reminder. The Gascon didn't turn around. Secrecy had been burned into him deeply, distance, distract, downplay, and he wasn't sure if he'd be able to speak if he had to look at them. "I remember the cloth. I was jealous of the boy who got to bring it out. I didn't know what it was but I knew it was special. Grandfather called it the curse breaker when he sent him to fetch it. No one was allowed in the Phuri dad's wagon, except, that night, Grandfather let him go there. And he came out holding the cloth." He paused to take a breath but none of them dared move and the quiet lay on them like the air was holding its breath, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the susurrus of the Palace around them. 

 

The moment dragged and Porthos glanced at Aramis, unsure if he should prompt him forward. D'Artagnan's head tilted, his eyes half closed as he followed the thin thread of memory and he spoke hesitantly, as if brushing a decade of dust off the words,  "I'd never seen black cloth before. It was so dark. Especially there by the wagons. Everything was color there. So I knew it was special. But grandfather sent someone else. I wasn't allowed near it, for fear of the half blood 'tainting' it" and making it powerless." The words were flat and d'Artagnan didn't turn to see the identical expressions of rage that passed over the others but they didn't dare speak for fear of breaking whatever spell had him talking to them. 

 

They could see the reflection of d'Artagnan's hands in the window, moving side to side as if miming unwrapping a cloth. "He was so careful when he unwrapped it..." His voice trailed off and he shook his head, voice thick with frustration. "I don't remember the rest."

 

Blue eyes sharp, Athos' voice was barely more than a rumble in his chest as he tried a different tack, "Why did he call for it? What happened before he asked for the other boy?"

 

D'Artagnan closed his eyes. He was silent for so long, Athos was almost ready to apologize when he spoke again. "We'd been at the fire. The days were warm but night came quickly in the forest in the summer so we'd built the fire early. And Grandfather was telling the story of the first exile. How our people had taken for granted the oxen and the wheat germ and had eaten them instead of planting them. He had just been getting to the part where the king cursed them for it..." His face crunched in concentration  but after a long moment he shook his head. "I don't..." d'Artagnan nearly growled in frustration. " I don't remember. The story cut off but..." He ran his hands over his face with a curse of his own. "I don't remember." 

 

Giving up any pretense of sleep or privacy, Athos reached out and clasped the younger man's neck, only barely resisting the urge to pull him closer. Porthos and Aramis pressed close, as if they could convince the younger man of their support by sheer physical proximity. Aramis' voice surrounded them, _It hasn't come to that, give the antidote time to work..._  D'Artagnan kept his eyes towards the window until the dawn came and tried to the ignore the stuttering of Athos' heartbeat against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * if you should like to be horrified, look up medical philosophy regarding the belief in humours or humorism. This system of "medicine" existed from the time of the greeks until the mid 1800s when cellular pathology was postulated.
> 
> * Again, there is evidence now that there are benefits to treating palpitations and arythemias with hawthorne, despite this, I am in no way advocating the use of a medieval treatment on any medical condition. Go see a doctor.   
> * Phuri Dad is the male form of Phuri Dae. To the best of my understanding, they are used both for the wise person/head of the clan as well as for grandfather/grandmother.
> 
> *Black was actually quite rare back in the day. It takes a ridiculous amount of the dying medium to create a color that dark and have it stick. So it was both rare and expensive
> 
> *There is not currently a consensus about where the Romany people came from. A number of scholars who focus in linguistics, believe based on the roots of their words and how those words have evolved along with their stories that they were Persian once and came to Europe through India. Several scholars have postulated the following as proof of their origin story. According to a legend reported in the Persian epic poem, the Shahnameh, from Iran, a Sasanian king in the early 400s discovered that the poor could not afford to enjoy music, which he dearly loved, and he asked the king of India to send him ten thousand luris - male and female lute-playing experts. When the luris arrived, Bahrām gave each one an ox and a donkey and a donkey-load of wheat so that they could live on agriculture and play music for free for the poor. But the luris were foolish and ate the oxen and the wheat and came back a year later with their cheeks hollowed with hunger. The king was furious that they had wasted what he had given them and ordered them to pack up their bags and go wandering around the world.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me so much trouble. The first version was way too slow and dragged out the action too much and so I scrapped it and beat this version all to hell. I hope it reads well in the end. 
> 
> I've been avoiding answering comments for fear of giving everything away but as alwaysThank you thank you thank you for your comments and kudos. They are very much appreciated.

It was the cold that woke Athos. It took him a moment to realize why that would be so for the night still lay dark and heavy on the room. But the leg that had been pressed against d'Artagnan's side felt chilled. Sleep fogged his mind as he struggled to determine why he was bothered by this. He could hear the rumble of Porthos' snores nearby and the familiar soft whuffle of Aramis' deep in sleep. There was something... A ghost of a hand brushed his hair but the heaviness of the antidote in his system reached up and pulled him back into sleep before he could hear the soft click of the hallway door.

 

**

 

The sun had crested the horizon when a crash ripped through the air, startling the Musketeers awake. Porthos was on his feet with his knife in hand before he blinked the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment to connect the shouting coming from the King's chambers with Doctor Devaroux but Aramis was already bolting for the door. 

 

As soon as the medic flung the door open, he ducked with a startled cry as a pewter bowl winged off the door, denting irreparably as it crashed to the floor. The soup inside spilled out onto the marble floor of the king's Chambers as the royal voice screeched through the air, "Are you trying to poison me with that filth? Bring me meat!" 

 

The soft rumble of the doctor's voice reached the inseparables but they couldn't make out the words as they drew closer to the room. The King's response remained clear though as a mug followed the bowl through the air. "Meat, I tell you!"

 

The doctor's face was drawn as he hurried over to the door. 

 

Something of sympathy crossed over Porthos' face as he offered a smile, "Well, if 'e's that hungry, he must be feeling better."

 

The strain on the doctor's face did not ease but even as he opened his mouth to speak, the King's voice broke through again, "I won't have you whispering over there!"

 

Athos' eyebrow arched - the king had never said a word against Doctor Devareaux before. The man had attended him since childhood. The physician seemed tired now, as he held up a placating hand, "I was merely going to update your loyal guard on your condition, my leige. And send a footman for the meat you requested."

 

The king's gaze narrowed for a moment before he gave a wave and subsided back into his bed, his fit having robbed him of whatever energy the night had lent him. The doctor whispered quick instructions to a footman for more food as Aramis scrutinized the King's condition.

 

The room was still dark, the shades still drawn to prevent any stray beam of sunlight from discomfiting the king but all the sconces were lit. The candlelight showed in stark relief how pale his skin had become, the black hair cast across the sheets the only differentiation between them. Dark bags had formed under his eyes despite the long night's sleep and the skin of his right hand was angrily red where the sunlight had touched, as if the brief moment's exposure had been a brand. 

 

Warmth flooded Athos' senses as d'Artagnan pressed against his side, leaning to look into the chamber. The younger man's voice was flat when he spoke, though he kept it low to keep it from carrying, "He has not improved." It was not a question but the doctor shook his head regardless.

 

 "And his wound?" Aramis ran a hand over his jaw, though his eyes did not leave the King.

 

Devareaux shrugged, "It has some heat but no sign of serious infection. The skin on his flank is swollen, but I'm inclined to think that a symptom rather than a consequence of the wound."

 

"So it is an illness." Dread sat heavy in d'Artagnan's stomach.

 

The doctor huffed out a frustrated sigh, "I can't say for sure. If it was illness, I would expect at least one of the rest  of us to be showing signs by now." He shrugged helplessly, "I still think the symptoms more in line with poison. But that was the strongest antidote I know and it has done nothing. If it is poison, there's nothing to be done but wait." He tilted his head, every year of his age weighing heavy in the drop of his eyes and the lines of his forehead. "If it is illness, I am equally at a loss. I've seen no illness to match these signs. Perhaps the king is right after all and it is a curse."

 

His voice was worn hollow with hopelessness and it spurred rage in d'Artagnan's chest at the implication. Flashing dark eyes passed from the king to Athos' pale face. "We need to find the emundad." Athos opened his mouth to protest but d'Artagnan shook his head sharply, desolation flashing in his eyes as he murmured, "I will lose no one else, Athos. I will not. Not the King and not..."

 

Athos wanted to duck his head, to hide from the intensity of that stare but ultimately yielded. "We will go to the woods..." 

 

Something shifted in d'Artagnan's stance and Athos' gaze turned piercing. Sharp blue eyes looked their youngest over - spotting the wet grass on the boots, the dampness of the leathers, as if the wearer had been out in the night as the morning dew was forming - finally zeroing in on a bloody scratch from an errant branch on the Gascon's neck. White hot rage, fierce and hungry, flashed over him, blinding him, suffocating him. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the sight of that bloody scratch. 

 

Distantly, some part of Athos knew he was overreacting, knew this was not like him, but he couldn't stop it - red filled his vision. D'Artagnan had paled and, inside his head, Athos was screaming as he heard himself hiss, "You've already gone." It was like being in a stranger's body as suspicion and venom coated his words, "You abandoned your watch and went to the woods, didn't you?"

 

The words landed like a blow and d'Artagnan flinched away for a moment before he visibly planted his feet and steeled himself. "I did." He raised his eyes to Athos', though the older man's gaze was still glued to the sparse streak of blood on his neck. "I told you Athos - I won't lose anyone else if I can stop it. And if the Emundad can save you both, it is my duty to try to find it." 

 

Something in his tone caught Aramis' attention and the marksman turned sharp eyes onto him, diffusing the intensity by the simple expedient of stepping between the two men, "To try? There was no sign of them then?" He didn't need to see d'Artagnan's face to know the answer, the way the younger man's head fell forward, his hair falling like the closing of curtains said enough. Aramis fought the urge to curse viciously. 

 

"What is this Emundad?"

 

The doctor's question made d'Artagnan's expression close down entirely and, with a wary glance, Aramis inclined his head, "I'm not sure. It seemed some kind of plant - most likely a root. The name seems to be derived from the latin for purifier but in truth, I've only seen it the once." Tone as carefully measured as his words, he went on, "It saved Athos' life in the woods. We think it was a wound from the same attackers then - though the symptoms set in much faster." He deliberately did not look at d'Artagnan, "The people who gave it to us seemed to think it capable of miracles..."

 

Devareaux arched an eyebrow, "I've never heard of it but if it works as you say, I'm willing to try it. Can you get it quickly? If word gets out that the King is ill, we'll have riots."

 

Reluctantly, Aramis' turned to d'Artagnan. The flickering candlelight darkened the circles under his eyes till they looked like bruises when the younger man finally looked up, "I thought there might be a... source in the woods north of Paris. I couldn't sleep anyway so I went to check it out." He gave an uneasy glance back at the others before continuing, "But the woods were empty."

 

"Any... signs?" Porthos tried to phrase it discreetly. 

 

D'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled, "Nothing. Or nothing I can read." A noise just short of a growl welled up in his throat and he spun away from them to pace the anteroom.

 

The others exchanged glances that the doctor couldn't read. "Is there any other place it can be found?" Another glance passed between them, a whole conversation written in a language the doctor couldn't read and he was about to comment on it when d'Artagnan's pacing brought him back within earshot.

 

"I'm forgetting something. Something important." He muttered to himself as he paced. He rolled his eyes briefly up to the others, his glance lingering on Athos before he tore it away, "What did he do after it was brought out?" He ran both hands through his hair as he muttered, gaze losing focus as he turned it as far back in memory as he could go. "He started with his herbs. He didn't bring it out right away. But the herbs weren't enough. He sliced it. Just like the Phuri Dae did for Athos. Sliced it and ground it. There was blood but no wound... or no wound that grandfather tried to fix. He fed him the paste..." D'Artagnan's brow was furrowed and the lack of sleep made him look older in the darkened room as he leaned his arm on the fireplace, his head going down to rest upon it. "It took all night."

 

The others carefully didn't move, did say a word, but he could see Athos' reflection behind him when he raised his head, warped by the silver vase on the mantle in front of him, a pale gaunt wraith of his usual self. "It took all night," d'Artagnan repeated, voice low as if confiding a secret. He focused on the reflection of bright blue eyes in silver. "There was only a small bit of the emundad left when he was done." The Gascon's brow furrowed before clearing in dawning excitement as he whirled around, "We planted it! He cut it into two and we planted the parts at the edge of the field at the dawn!" 

 

"Can you find it?"

 

D'Artagnan was nodding before Aramis even finished the question. "We'll have to follow the wagon trail but yes, I think so."

 

The doctor arched an eyebrow, well aware there was a whole story here he was missing but a glance between Athos and King's pale faces was enough to convince him he didn't care. "Then it sounds like you have a mission to attend to. Save the King." 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for the comments and kudos.

 

"I do not approve of this plan," Treville punctuated the statement with the arch of an eyebrow. "Or rather the lack thereof. Following the half remembered memories of a child from over a decade ago on the hopes of finding a miracle plant that may or may not even be there and may or may not even work." It didn't seem possible but the eyebrow arched higher as his gaze raked over the two Musketeers in front of him. "And why are there only the two of you?"

 

Porthos had the grace to look abashed but it didn't last long as he hooked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the King's chambers. "D'Artagnan remembered somet'ing about some herbs that dey used before the root thing was brought out. So the doc and Aramis are making him try to draw them so they can figure out what dey are and feed 'em to t'King while we're gone. Buy us time."

 

"Time to do what exactly?" The words dropped with the precision of a rapier and Athos winced at the impact.

 

The paleness of the older man's skin gave way only at his hand where blisters had erupted after the previous night's experiment; Treville wasn't sure he should even be out of bed, but he knew better than to mention that as blue eyes, nigh burning with a mulish ferocity, jerked up to him. "Find the emundad. Bring it back. Save the King." The words were short, almost a challenge.

 

One Treville knew better than to take, especially when Porthos' ladled on a sardonic grin, "it's not like we 'ave a lot of options, captain."

 

"Fine." The older man spit out in sheer frustration. "Find your miracle. Do it quickly." He glanced down at the ever growing stack of papers on the desk he'd commandeered at the Palace. He was used to sending these men out on impossible tasks, used to them accomplishing those tasks. But to chase after the half remembered remnants of a plant that may or may not have taken root without knowing what or even how much they would find. If either had taken root or only one... "Athos..." A world of regret swirled in the name but he couldn't bring himself the voice the rest.

 

He didn't need to. One corner of Athos' lips quirked up and, despite the pain on his face, he gave a curt bow before stalking out of the room with Porthos close behind.

 

**

 

D'Artagnan's fingers were ink stained when they rejoined the others and there was a smear of black just below his hairline that Athos was positive no one had told him about yet. The younger man looked wrung out and the pile of crude drawings Aramis and the doctor were passing back and forth were a testament to how ruthless the men had been in extracting information.

 

"Nettle leaf and dandelion root we can get anywhere," Aramis muttered as they flipped through several more. He pointed at one particularly gnarly looking seedpod, "I think that must be devil's claw.*"

 

"I concur," the physician rubbed his face as if he could wipe away the weariness, "I have at least a handful or two in my chest. I'll send some with you and have the boy fetch me more."

 

"What about the red powder he spoke of?" Aramis didn't even wait for an answer before turning, "Do you recall any name to it, d'Art?"

 

Folding his arms across his chest, d'Artagnan screwed his eyes up tight, "I'm not sure. I'd seen him use it before, for fevers... He put it in with the sugar. It was red and kind of... chunky? It was something religious... Priest powder maybe? "

 

Aramis tapped the papers in his hands, mouthing the words to himself for a moment, lazily tracking the movements of a footman as a tray of meat was taken to the king, when his eyes took on a sharp gleam, "Could it be Jesuit powder*?"

 

The younger man shrugged as the footman entered the king's bedchambers, "I was 10, Aramis. It's not like it was yesterday."

 

Despite everything the medic grinned at him, "Closer for you than any of us, lad."

 

Breaking into the banter, Devareaux frowned, "I've never heard of it."

 

Aramis' head bobbed side to side as he contemplated further, "The Jesuit missionaries have been bringing it back but not in any great quantity yet. It's possible they could have had some from them. I believe it's some kind of powdered tree bark but they swear by it for any number of ailments."

 

Casting worried eyes back to where the King slept fitfully, Devareaux threw down the drawings, "It certainly can't hurt. I'll send to the Jesuits and if they have it, get whatever they can spare."

 

With a short nod, Aramis' rolled up the papers, "Hopefully that will buy us enough time."

 

From the king's bedchambers, a sound that d'Artagnan could only describe as rending filled the air as the monarch dove into the meat.

 

The doctor looked pained and quickly dropped his eyes. "After the herbs are obtained, I'm going to have a closed carriage brought - take the king to his hunting lodge at Versailles.* That should buy us a week before his condition is noticed."

 

Louis looked up briefly, juices near red as blood dribbling down the sides of his chin as he licked his lips, the color standing out against his pale cheeks.

 

A shudder went through the old doctor's shoulders as he gathered up the drawings, "Whatever you're doing, gentlemen, hurry."

 

+++

 

They took the doctor's warning to heart. By the sun's set that night, the musketeers reached the outskirts of a village just north of Gascony where d'Artagnan remembered meeting the wagons so long ago.

 

The horses sides were slick with sweat but they had been trained for battle and had made no complaint despite the brutal pace. Dark eyes surveyed the treeline before a gloved hand pointed at a majestic oak, "There. That's where I joined the wagons; where the trail started."

 

Porthos jerked his head back at the village, "We ain't travelling through that dense of a wood in the dark. Why don't we take advantage of that inn?"

 

The others looked to Athos and he lifted his chin to loosen the multitude of scarves d'Artagnan and Aramis had wrapped around his face and neck. They had taken no chances with any stray sunlight hitting his skin during the day. As soon as his mouth was free, the older man turned the full force of his scowl on all of them, "I am not sleeping wrapped in these." Aramis gave a pointed glance at the glove that covered his blistered hand, tucked against his side though not quite unusable, and relented, "At least not tonight. Porthos is right. We might miss something if we travel through the woods at night. We'll stay at the inn and tackle the woods at first light."

 

+++

 

The innkeeper was accommodating enough once he saw their coin and fortunately willing enough to find Aramis' flirting with his wife amusing. Their request for a room large enough for the four of them met with incredulity before an additional coin had the man's sons scurrying off to fetch cots and the hot water Aramis requested.

 

Porthos threw his rucksack against the wall before tossing himself on a cot with a sigh, "Ah, definitely better than the cold hard ground."

 

In the cot next to him, Aramis frowned, testing it with his hand, "I'm not sure I can feel any difference."

 

It startled a laugh out of d'Artagnan and the sound rang out, almost foreign on their ears at this point. Even Athos cracked a smile as he tried to claim the last cot, only to find the younger man's pack plopping in front of him and warm brown eyes glaring him towards the bed. "I'll take first watch," the younger man declared loudly - almost smug, "So you can take the bed, Athos."

 

"Insolent pup," Athos grumbled. He contemplated fighting it but Aramis was eyeing him in a way that boded ill for his success and his joints ached as if there was something under his skin twisting the sinews and tendons against their nature. Throwing himself on the bed, he missed the way concern darkened d'Artagnan's gaze, erasing whatever ease the brief laughter had brought. By the time Athos looked up, his blue eyes stern, the Gascon had schooled it back into some approximately of neutrality as the older man scolded, "You _will_  wake one of us for second watch."

 

A quirk of lip broke the neutrality as d'Artagnan inclined his head - though no one mistook the acknowledgment for agreement. The arrival of the innkeeps daughter with a tray of bread, cheese and wine saved him from having to lie. But the food couldn't fight off the stress of the day and even Porthos' enthusiasm for cards waned before the stars fully emerged. 

 

First watch passed, punctuated by the snores of his friends. Aramis had risen briefly to check on Athos and feed him the brewed herbs but as the moon passed its zenith, all three of them lay sleeping. The room was dark, not even the pale light of the moon to break up the shadow, but d'Artagnan didn't bother to wake any of the others for second watch. If he wasn't going to sleep anyway, he might as well be useful. His eyes were tracking the snail trail of smoke from the lower kitchen roof, tracing it's path as it climbed the sky and entwined itself with the long sinuous line of Cassiopeia* when he heard the noise just outside the casement. 

 

His hand flexed on the hilt of his sword as he moved soundlessly towards the window to look, loathe to wake the others for something that might turn out to be a cat or some other night inclined animal. A swath of black, somehow darker than night, a wing? a body? a cloak? far too big to be a cat moved towards the window and d'Artagnan barely had time to shout the alarm before it was crashing through the window. 

 

Snarls filled his ears and for a moment as the bulk smashed into him, he thought it was some kind of animal until his sword met matching steel with a resounding clang. He could hear the sounds of his friends around him but he couldn't spare them any attention. His attacker was fast, faster than anyone he'd ever fought before, even Athos, and strong as Porthos at least. The black garb he wore, and yes, that was a cloak, made him blend into the shadows which made his movements hard to track. He was surviving on pure instinct alone, let his eyes unfocus to catch the slightest motion which his sword answered without conscious direction from his brain. Bits of fabric flew as his sword sliced through the sleeve of his attacker's doublet but his sword kept moving unhindered. 

 

"D'Artagnan, left!" The order was sharp and d'Artagnan was throwing himself left before his brain even processed it. The gunshot was deafening in the room, punctuated by a scream, and then in a whirl of black the attacked flung himself back out the window. 

 

Aramis ran to the window with his other pistol raised as d'Artagnan scrambled up from the floor, sword still in hand, but the marksman shook his head, "He's gone. Blended right into the dark." 

 

Crouching to the floor, Porthos came up with a scrap of fabric, "'e left behind a souvenir." Between his fingers, a piece of black fabric and part of a familiar crest - a black wing and what looked like part of a crude tower - dangled. 

 

"Looks like we've made some friends," Aramis drawled as his eyes raked down d'Artagnan, looking for any sign of injury but the younger man was in one piece as he moved back to the window. 

 

Trailing a finger across the broken casement, d'Artagnan held up a hand wet with blood, "At least we made an impression."

 

Athos moved to the window, pale skin near glowing in the dark night, as Porthos tossed him the scrap of fabric, "But are they chasing us to finish the job or because they know about the emundad?" 

 

"They can't know about the Emundad," d'Artagnan protested. "We wouldn't have been in that portion of the wood if there was anyone else nearby. And if they found it since then, why wouldn't they just destroy it?"

 

Blue eyes stared out at the dark window for a long moment as Athos turned the fabric over in his hands, looking suddenly more tired than when he'd gone to sleep, the dark circles like slashes on his skin. "All we've got are more questions." 

 

D'Artagnan's hand closed around his bicep and the warmth of it felt almost like fire through his sleeve. "You should rest more." He knew the answer even before Athos refused.

 

"No, if they come back, we could end up trapped here. We have more options in the forest." Athos winced as he pulled on his jacket and wordlessly Aramis passed him the remainder of his brewed herb concoction. He downed the sweetened sludge quickly, doing his best to avoid tasting it. "And we don't have time to waste." 

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Up until 1682, when it was expanded into a palace, Versailles was a hunting lodge/pavillion and not the pleasure palace we know today.  
> *Nettle leaf, dandelion root, devil's claw are natural sources of heme. Jesuit powder is a natural source of quinine.   
> *Fun fact: Cassiopeia was discovered in 1572.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does an extra long chapter make up for it taking so long? I hope so.   
> As always, the comments and kudos are infinitely appreciated.

 

They saw no one and nothing their first day through the woods as d'Artagnan led them carefully down a path no one else could read. They were undisturbed, the birdsong continuing uninterrupted and the lack of an attack throughout the day, after such a dramatic night, had them all on edge. D'Artagnan stopped every so often to study what Athos would swear was just a jumble of sticks and flowers and Aramis used the opportunity to make Athos drink more of the herb and sugar mixture he had steeping in the spare skin. He did so with a grimace, wiping his mouth with distaste and then washing it down with a hefty glug of wine. "I take it there's still signs for you to follow?" 

 

The Gascon pointed to a pile of rocks half overgrown with mold and vines. Athos could see nothing special about it but d'Artagnan nodded, almost to himself. "They're old. I don't think any clan has passed this way since my grandfather's time. But they're still here." He eyed the sun's near distance to the horizon and chewed the corner of his lip for a moment before meeting Athos' eyes, "I won't be able to see them in the dark."

 

Athos' would have liked to press on but the admission sparked relief and annoyance within him. His bones still ached despite Aramis' potion and his muscles had been cramping intermittently since dawn. It had made him almost grateful for the scarves he was swathed in as they had hidden his grimaces of pain while they were following the trail. The thought had his hand moving to replace the hated scraps of fabric over his face when another stronger cramp rippled through his midsection. He tried to school his features but when he opened eyes he didn't remember closing, d'Artagnan was by his horse, hand upon his knee. 

 

Aramis was behind him by only a second as Porthos set himself up as lookout. "The cramping has gotten worse." The flat statement made Athos flinch - clearly he had not been as skilled at hiding things from these men as he had thought. 

 

The distress in d'Artagnan's eyes was transforming to near panic and he opened his mouth but Aramis shook his head. The younger man felt foolish - of course Aramis would not have allowed his friend to suffer if there had been anything he more could do. He swallowed down the original question and changed plans in an instant, "Like I said, I won't be able to follow them in the dark. We should find someplace to camp." 

 

Any protest Athos would have made was cut short by another cramp and Porthos made quick work of scouting a suitable spot while he was distracted. Athos must have lost some time because the next he knew, d'Artagnan was helping him down from the horse, skin pale beneath it's natural olive tone, murmuring a string of meaningless words as if Athos were a skittish horse. His eyes burned and Athos closed them as he sighed, trying to empty his mind with the air in his lungs.

 

When he opened his eyes, his gaze was caught by dark eyes made liquid in the firelight. "Are you with me, Athos?" The younger man asked and Athos didn't want to know how he'd been responding to put that tone in the back of d'Artagnan's voice. 

 

It made him more honest than he might have been otherwise. "Always." 

 

D'Artagnan opened his mouth as if to... but anything he would have said was lost to a shout of alarm as all of Athos' muscles seized at once. The seizure narrowed Athos' world down to spasms, flashes of senses in the midst of mind numbing pain as his very muscles rebelled against him. Shouting crashed against his ears like a blow though he had no hope of discerning the words. He felt the firm pressure of hands around his head. The rough bark of a sturdy branch against his tongue. The jar as his teeth clamped down around the wood almost involuntarily as his head smashed back into something soft. The blossom of pain as his arm flailed into something hard and solid.

 

Athos came back to himself with the taste of dirt and copper at the back of his throat. His eyelids felt as if someone had mortared them shut and there was dread coiled in the back of his throat for the pain that was inevitably waiting with the slightest twitch of muscles. Carefully, he drew in a slow breath, subsuming the pain twinging all around his ribs at the motion. As he let the breath out with equal care, the low murmur of a melody just above him penetrated the fog that clouded his senses. 

 

"The friends are gone, but I have stayed. There is no Morning Star. There is no Morning Star. " The song was low, almost absent, as if whoever it was wasn't aware of what they were doing. But it was comforting and Athos felt some tenseness in his muscles loosen as he listened, "My fellow-traveler, hey, who is..." Athos must have made some movement because the tune cut off and suddenly there was a hand against his face, "Athos?" 

 

He only knew one person who could put that much emotion into his name, "I'm with you, d'Artagnan." He didn't need to open his eyes to see the look on the Gascon's face at that - the glare practically bored through him in response to the ragged words. "I'm well enough. How long?" He opened his eyes and it was only then he realized his head was pillowed on the other's leg in the middle of a makeshift camp.

 

The Gascon looked drawn, the flickering of the fire doing nothing to disguise the circles under his eyes as he stared into the flames, "A few hours." He reached to grab a familiar skin and handed it over, "Aramis said you were to drink more of this as soon as you awoke. He's stewing more but he wanted you to start with this." 

 

The medic was clearly taking no chances. Based on the taste, Athos estimated he doubled the amount of herbs and sugar he'd placed in the skin this time but he swallowed it anyway. "I assume we've been unmolested?"

 

D'Artagnan nodded, that remote distance still haunting his eyes, as he jerked his chin toward the other side of the fire. "Porthos is sleeping. Aramis is on picket about 200 yards out - he'll come back to check on you soon. But we've seen nothing so far tonight." 

 

With a groan, Athos started to push himself up, "You should sleep." 

 

Deft hands pressed down on his shoulders. "Don't get up." 

 

"Don't be foolish," Athos retorted, his hands closing around d'Artagnan's wrists as he gave up on rising. "You haven't slept in days."

 

The younger man startled as another voice broke in. "He's right," Aramis' tone was stern as he entered the circle of firelight. "Now that Athos has woken, you need to rest." D'Artagnan's face took on a familiar mulish cast but Aramis was already shaking his head as he crouched beside them, "You can rest of your own accord or I'll wake Porthos so he can knock you out."

 

Athos squeezed his wrists before speaking, "He's right, d'Artagnan. You must rest." He could sense the argument still boiling and shook his head curtly. "This is not up for debate." And, because Athos knew no subtlety that was not performed with steel, he narrowed his eyes adding, "If you keep this up and there's another attack you'll be useless."

 

He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth; the hurt look in d'Artagnan's eyes and the exasperation on Aramis' face only confirmed it. The Gascon stalked away, throwing his bedroll next to Porthos before flinging himself down as Athos watched helplessly. 

 

"That was poorly done, Athos," Aramis murmured as the medic's sure hands ran over him. 

 

"I didn't mean..." The sentence trailed off as Athos rubbed his free hand over his face. "I just wanted him to rest." 

 

Aramis lifted a pale arm, frowning at the swelling under the skin of the forearm, before laying it gently down and handing Athos a freshly brewed skin of the herbs. "Drink," he said absently, eyes straying to the other side of the fire. He waited until Athos had downed half the skin before continuing, "You cannot protect him from this, Athos." Dark eyes met his and Athos could almost see the ghosts of Savoy lining up in the shadows of Aramis' gaze. "If you try, you'll only end up pushing him away. We are all that keeps him here. If he loses that, if we let go of that..." The words trailed off into silence, like the aftermath of a gunshot on a cold winter's morning. 

 

"I know," Athos hunched in on himself as if he'd been wounded, his whole body aching from the seizures. His eyes raised to the form across the fire as if drawn by a magnet, "I know." The medic's hand was warm on his shoulder and they sat there as the night grew dark around them.

 

**

 

There was no noise that woke him. Athos was sure of that so when he came awake in the deep night, confusion reigned in his sleep fogged mind. He moved to sit up and agony washed over him. It felt like every muscle had been wrung thin and strained before being clumsily and not too solidly reattached. But that feeling of wrong persisted and Athos forced himself to sit up. 

 

Whether d'Artagnan had forgiven him or whether he'd simply been unable to resist checking on him, Athos wasn't sure but a moments survey was enough to see he was nearby and, further, he was clearly the reason Athos was awake. He slept, if it could be called that - making no noise but his face was contorted, pain awash over his features. His lips moved, forming words or a plea Athos couldn't read but he couldn't stand to see. 

 

"D'Artagnan," he spoke low so as not to disturb Aramis on the other side of the fire but the younger man didn't wake. Carefully - Aramis' nightmares after Savoy had taught them well to be cautious - Athos laid his hand gently on d'Artagnan's shoulder, "It's not real, d'Artagnan. Wake up."

 

At the contact, d'Artagnan bolted awake, something hunted and terrified in the wide set of his eyes and the sudden tenseness of his body. Athos caught his wrist before he could draw a blade, "Stop, d'Artagnan, it's me; you're safe."

 

D'Artagnan's eyes darted around but he didn't fight Athos' hold. His chest heaved as he took in the campsite, Aramis' cloak wrapped form on the other side, the dark shadow of Porthos bulk in the distance, before his gaze came back to rest on Athos. "Athos," he panted, "are you all right? Should I wake Aramis?"

 

A growl escaped Athos chest before he could think to hold it in, "It's not me I'm worried about." The sheer incomprehension on d'Artagnan's face tore at him and his voice was rough when he spoke again, "Are you well?"

 

For once, d'Artagnan couldn't even bring himself to dissemble. As the adrenaline drained away, it seemed to take much of his resistance with it. He slumped over letting dark hair obscure his expression as he visibly tried to pull himself together. "I was dreaming, or remembering, I'm not sure. I can't tell how much was..." His whole frame shuddered with his breath and he rubbed his hands over his face before looking up to the crackle of the low banked fire. "I was back with the wagons. Grandfather was there, telling the story." 

 

With a care Athos hadn't realized he possessed, he laid his hand gently on the younger man's back, "The night he used the emundad?"

 

D'Artagnan chewed his lip, "I think so. He wasn't yet to the curse when there was a noise. A man crashed into the wagons. His hair was long and his skin was so pale. There were blisters all down his arms and on his neck. Blood crusted on his face and on his fingers. He fell to the ground and the people scattered as he jerked around, slashing at the air. There was screaming. Only grandfather was brave enough to get near him. That was when he sent the other boy to his wagon."

 

Athos looked numbly at the skin of his hand, blistered while he slept, "You think..." He cleared his throat but still couldn't finish the sentence."What happened?"

 

"It took four men to hold him," d'Artagnan's voice was almost a whisper. "He was so strong. There was blood everywhere but no wound. His whole jaw was coated in it." The younger man swallowed hard, remembering the image of their King tearing into a nearly raw piece of meat. "My grandfather called him 'mullo.'"*

 

The scabbed over scratch on d'Artagnan's neck taunted Athos and horror echoed through his brain. "But the emundad cured him?" 

 

Whatever was in his voice brought the Gascon's eyes to his, strain adding years to his youthful countenance. "It took all night," He repeated the words he'd said before, linking dream to memory. "Nearly the whole root over the course of the night."

 

There was more that d'Artagnan wasn't volunteering. Athos was certain of it. "Out with it," his voice was gruff but he squeezed his shoulder to take the sting out of it, "What else?"

 

It said something about the extent of the younger man's exhaustion that he offered no more resistance. He tucked his arms around his knees, hands clenched tightly enough that his knuckles turned white, "When he..." d'Artagnan cleared his throat. "When he woke, he told us... he'd done horrible things, Athos. Horrible things. He raved about them. Cursed what he was, what he had been, what he had done..." He trailed off for a moment and took a deep shuddering breath. "He threw himself into the fire. Said it was the only way to be sure. He burned, Athos."

 

Athos' grip didn't waver. Somehow he felt as if his grip on d'Artagnan's shoulder was the only thing keeping him there. "Did he..." his voice sounded like he'd been inhaling smoke, "Did he know what it was then? This illness?" _This curse..._  Athos wasn't superstitious and whatever belief he'd had in outside powers had been buried in a casket with his younger brother. But even he could feel a shadow over their camp. Whether it was dread or something more. He would walk into the fires himself if he became a threat to these men. 

 

At last d'Artagnan's eyes came back to his as if he sensed the turn his thoughts had taken. Reflected firelight danced off them. "He cursed the ones who had turned him. He called them upir."*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If it kills me, I intend to have this story finished by Halloween for obvious reasons. And I suspect Aramis still has quite a bit to say on what the boys have learned in this chapter. ;) 
> 
> *Mullo/Upir: There are many who claim that the Romany were the source of the vampire legend. As best we can track, they arrived in Romania shortly before the reign of Vlad Dracul but frankly as a people they had a long history of vampiric characters regardless. In the region of India/Pakistan they are believed to have began, there are a number of mythological figures that have vampiric characteristics so there was plenty of foundation to begin with. Upir is the slavic word for vampir - most likely the first in use generally until the later germanic vampir became more common. If the stranger was an outsider, this is the term he would most likely know. The Romany word was "Mullo" sometimes spelled "Mulo" which literally means "one who is dead." They have very complicated beliefs involving death and cleanliness but believed anyone could come back as a vampire and if they did, tended to attack their closest relatives, sucking out their blood and leaving them for dead.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nearly to the end! My goal is to have it done by the end of Halloween week so there should be more updates soon!  
> As always, comments and kudos are very much appreciated.

 

"Don't be ridiculous," Aramis' voice was curt, cutting through the night as he joined them. He squatted down beside them, checking Athos' temperature with intemperate gestures. "This is no curse." A new skin that, by the smell of it, was filled with a more potent mixture of the herbs was shoved pointedly at the wounded man. "You cannot alleviate a curse with herbs and sugar. You cannot cure it with a root. This is an illness plain and simple." Impatient hands gestured Athos to drink. "It's just a matter of knowing how to treat it and getting the medicine in time."

 

"You saw how fast he was at the inn, Aramis'," d'Artagnan's voice was doubtful. "He was strong too. At least as strong as Porthos."

 

Athos tilted his head so, eyes narrowed in contemplation, "You think he was similarly afflicted?"

 

Taking a twig in hand, the younger man absently drew patterns in the dirt by his feet, "If it is that, there are... Stories. The older boys would tell them around the campfire after it happened. I thought they were just trying to scare us..." He trailed off for a minute before shrugging, "Me. But they said that the change to upir is hard - sometimes they die and stay dead. But if they survive, they are faster, stronger, more vicious." 

 

"Superstition!" Aramis' threw up his hands. "People with no medical training who don't understand an illness trying to make sense of it. It's the same nonsense as those who thought that being born with a club foot is a mark of the devil."

 

"Oi!" Porthos voice was sharp from the other side of the fire and it stopped Aramis' mid rant. The bigger man propped both hands on his hips, glaring through over the glow of the fire, "what does 't matter if'n its a curse or a sickness? Either the root's a curse breaker or its strong med'cine, either way it solves the problem, right?" He sighed in exasperation before giving up with a shake of his head, "I'm going back out on picket to see if all this yammering hasn't attracted attention. Mebbe think about not trying to let the whole world know where we are."

 

Silence reigned for a long moment around the fire before d'Artagnan sighed, tossing his stick into the scant flames, "He's right." He ran a hand over his face, trying fruitlessly to wipe away the exhaustion, before looking up at the other two men. "It doesn't matter if it's a curse or not. So long as the emundad works."

 

"You should rest more," Aramis said, in the tone of a man who knew his advice would go unheeded. "There's no point in dwelling on such memories."

 

The younger man shrugged, "There may be something that helps me remember the location. So we don't have to search every portion of the trail. We don't have time to keep going blindly." Stubbornness was writ through his expression and neither Athos nor Aramis were foolish enough to try and challenge him, no matter how much they wanted to.

 

**

 

They passed unmolested the next day as well, their horses' hooves eating up the sunny trail as d'Artagnan traced the path. Athos drank the herbal mixture faithfully - between d'Artagnan and Aramis he was given no choice in that - but the ache in his hand and his joint had spread to become pain in his chest and stomach. They had to stop three times for him to vomit, each time tightening the lines in his friends faces. 

 

After the last, he swayed in the saddle, causing an argument that lasted for the better part of an hour with d'Artagnan pleading to be allowed to go ahead with Porthos while Aramis stayed to care for him. The argument only ceased when Athos took the spare rope from one of his saddlebags and lashed himself to the saddle with impatient gestures before croaking out, "If we are attacked again, it may take all four of us. We ride."

 

**

 

They rode till every scrap of sunlight failed them, making camp only when d'Artagnan could no longer distinguish the patteron in the dark. Pain and his own racing heartbeat left Athos no choice but to doze by the fireside, unable to sleep. After the second nightmare ripped d'Artagnan from his own rest, the younger man flung himself from his bedroll and relieved Porthos as the picket, his glare daring him to comment. 

 

The bigger man held up his hands in a clear gesture of surrender but before he returned to his bedroll, he murmured, "Keep sharp, d'Art." Keen eyes surveyed the dark tree line around them. "There's something out there. I could feel eyes on us..." His hand rested on the hilt of his schiava. 

 

D'Artagnan scanned the darkness but there were no telltale glints or the gleam of eyes. The shadows lay undisturbed on the trees like a cloak but nothing moved. He clapped a hand on Porthos' shoulder, voice pitched low so as not to carry, "Sounds like you should get some sleep while you can then. I'll wake you up if things get exciting." With a chuff of a laugh, Porthos turned back to camp, his dark skin blending into the night. 

 

**

 

It was just shy of dawn when Porthos opened his eyes next and he was surprised to see the creeping light. He loosed his hand from where it had rested on his hilt all night, bringing it up to light the sleep from his eyes. "Hey! If you let me sleep through the fun bits..." 

 

"There weren't any fun bits," d'Artagnan sounded singularly grumpy about the statement as he walked up to the camp. "I agree - eyes on us all night, but not one move." His eyes land on Athos, taking in the sharp blue eyes, rimmed red with exhaustion and pain, and the deliberate stiffness of a man moving to avoid pain. The look in those eyes kept him silent, though he wasn't able to resist coming to stand at the man's side, pressing his shoulder against his just to feel the solidity of flesh there. 

 

There were tremors running through the muscles, almost micro seizures, but none of it showed on Athos' face. "They're stalking us." Despite the hoarseness of the older man's voice, the disgust came through clearly. "Letting us lead them to the emundad." 

 

Aramis ladled the last of his newest brew into a skin, handing it up to Athos before scuffing out the remains of the fire with his boot and tucking the tiny pot back into his saddle bag. "Our choices are limited." He didn't point out the shaking of Athos' hand or the clear swelling in his arms; he didn't need to. "Speed is more important than secrecy at this point. If Athos is this bad, the King is likely worse - while Athos was exposed previously, the last wound was glancing. The King's was bone deep." 

 

Athos scowled at the description but could not refute it. Every movement felt like fire and his muscles felt like they would betray him at the slightest provocation. Aramis' herbs were buying them time but they were less effective with every dose. He had not admitted to it, but the tightness around Porthos' eyes and the near panic barely restrained in d'Artagnan's made it clear that he was fooling no one. He turned his head slightly towards the younger man, "Can you see well enough to find our way?" 

 

For a moment, Athos thought he might drown in the darkness of the Gascon's liquid gaze but then panic solidified into determination and he felt the squeeze of his hand around his wrist. "I'll find it," d'Artagnan swore, holding his gaze before turning and mounting in one smooth motion. "We must move faster. I'll scout ahead." 

 

**

 

They moved as fast as they dared through the forest, the sun dodging their heels and the ever present threat of shadows growing behind them. They fell into a rhythm - d'Artagnan would scout ahead to find the next patteron and the others would move as fast as Athos' condition would allow. The one time he had opened his mouth to propose they all go on ahead and leave him as the vanguard, the Gascon had shot him a look so dark and filled with violence that it killed the words on his tongue. 

 

Twice more the seizures hit and Athos awoke from the second to find himself tied to his horse with Porthos riding tight to his side. "You back wit' us?" The big man asked, relief coloring his tone. 

 

A tin like ringing echoed in his ears as he flexed his hands to ease the grip his muscles had taken on the reins. He felt a hundred years old, as if his ligaments and bones had dried and tightened before turning to dust inside his limbs. It took two tries and a deep swig from the skin that Porthos held out for him before he could reply, "I'm here." He blinked several times, the details of the forest coming back to him more clearly. "The others?"

 

Porthos glanced behind them and it was only then Athos realized the bigger man had his pistol in hand. "Our admirers 'ave been nipping at our 'eels all day. Just before you..." he trailed off for a moment before taking up the thread again, "They finally got close enough for Aramis to get a bead on them. He harried them back a bit and d'Art is trying to buy us a bigger lead." 

 

Athos winced; the younger man had to be frantic at this point. He was quite certain the only reason the younger man hadn't torn off ahead entirely was that they would be hopelessly lost in the forest without him. "You should go back and help Aramis."

 

"If you think I'm going t' face the whelp and tell him I left you alone," Porthos snorted, "the sickness has spread to more than just your limbs." As if to emphasize the point, he tightened his grip on Athos' reins, kicking their horses forward. 

 

A branch cracked behind them and Porthos had his pistol trained on the figure until it resolved into Aramis. "Hold, my friend," the Spaniard said, coming up quickly behind them. A look was enough for him to see that all was not right with Athos. He handed the older man another skein of brewed herbs as his hands fluttered over the pale skin, testing for heat and swelling. "I gave our followers something to think about for a bit. That should buy us some space but it won't be much."

 

"How many?" Athos croaked, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the medic. 

 

Aramis frowned as d'Artagnan reappeared before them. "My best guess? Three," he responded absently. "Though I can't be sure. Drink that."

 

Whether it was the look on Aramis' face or the sweat beading the scarves to Athos' skin, it was all too clear that they were running out of time. Something akin to horror chased fear over the Gascon's face before he shut down entirely, expression turning to stone. "I found the remains of the campfire. It left a... mark," the curtness of his voice was foreign on the normally voluble young man. "I think we're getting close. If you can keep to my heels, I think we can move with real speed. We can't risk them getting ahead of us." 

 

Athos cast a look to the sky and the fading daylight, "It will be dangerous for the horses." He wanted the words to come out firmly but the crack of his own ragged voice defeated him. He winced as Aramis touched his knee, the joint swollen and tender even through the fabric of his leathers. 

 

The medic shook his head, "It's worth the risk. We need to move."

 

D'Artagnan held his gaze until Athos was forced to look up and see the words floating in his dark eyes. Are you with me?

 

Athos had only one answer for that question. The same answer he had ever since a brash young man pulled him from the burning ruin of his own past. He nodded decisively, bracing himself against the pain that was sure to follow. Always. "We ride."

**

They drove the horses hard, crashing through the woods, sacrificing silence for every bit of speed they could wring in the dying light. Past what remained of a pyre, where nothing grew on ground still scorched and scarred from the event, they paused for nothing. Branches whipped against their faces, their arms, their legs, lashing the horses with the wail of the wind around them. But both animals and man were well trained and neither faltered until they burst onto the edge of a small field. 

 

A hundred feet away or more, on the edge of the field, a ring of red and orange wildflowers surrounded a small green plant. The white buds on it's vines seemed almost like tiny stars. A second one sat near it surrounded by its own small circle, pushing through a coating of dried leaves and twigs. If Athos squinted, his blurred vision could just make out the smallest hint of a third beside it, like a fairy ring of legend, in the light of the rising moon. 

 

"There," d'Artagnan whispered as he reined in his horse. He dropped to the ground in the sudden silence that followed. His legs were shaking after the harsh ride but his eyes were glued to the small flowers.

 

Aramis hopped down as well, tossing his reins to Porthos before walking over to the younger man, "Is that it?" His voice was hushed as he rested a hand on the younger man's shoulder. 

 

He had to clear his throat several times before he could force out the words and it still felt like a kind of sacrilege to speak. "Those red and orange flowers. Grandfather used them to mark spaces that were..." D'Artagnan swallowed hard. "Sacred. I remember him using them on my grandmother's grave mound. For them to be in a ring like that..." He pointed to the plant in the center, the white stars shining as the dark fell around them. "That must be the emundad."

 

A sibilant cackle rent the darkness and the Musketeers arms sprang into their hands in a well practiced motion as they turned. A shadow detached itself from the forest's edge. "Fools." The word was hissed from inside a dark cloak. The black fabric of his tunic and breeches seemed to blend into the dark except for the gleam of a badge on the chest, a crest they could finally see clearly - a black eagle, bearing a crown as it spread its wings over towered hills.* "My lord Bathory** told me you would lead us to the death herb. Give up now."

 

Porthos barked out a laugh as d'Artagnan shifted, not so subtly placing himself before Athos' horse as a second figure came forward from the dark to join the first. "We're not so good at dat giving up idea." 

 

"You stand no chance against us," The second figure rasped, his pale face gleaming in the moonlight. "Your companion is almost one of us, as is your King."

 

Athos nearly growled in response from his horse and his grip on his sword was sure even though his arm trembled minutely. "I will never be one of you."

 

The smirk that answered Athos' declaration made d'Artagnan's blood boil. He drew their attention off the older man, "Why are you doing this? Why our King?" He racked his brain to place the complete crest on the list the steward had given them. "Your lands are days from here. What could you possibly want with us?"

 

Both of the shadowy figures looked at him hungrily, teeth bared in the night. "Our lord must have funds to reclaim his lands. When that idiot duc was caught, we tried to take the mines. When that failed, we decided to claim the King himself and with him all the riches of your land."

 

"We will save the King." d'Artagnan's voice was like a vow. _And Athos_.  "If we must go through you to do so, I promise you, we will." The others shifted to cover his flanks, Athos at their back. 

 

The figures only laughed in response, flinging back their cloaks and drawing their own swords, revealing... completely intact sleeves. D'Artagnan frowned, trying to decide why that bothered him so. _Pay attention, little love_. A flash of a broken windowsill and a torn emblem blinked across his mind and he gasped, about to speak when a voice came from behind, "Why would we go through you, when it's so much easier to just go around." 

 

D'Artagnan whirled around just in time to see a third figure, torn sleeve glaringly obvious in the moonlight, standing over those small rings of flowers, holding a torch at arms' length. He bolted forward even as the others shifted to attack but it was too late - the pale hand loosened and the torch fell to the ground. The dry leaves and twig caught fire immediately and the Musketeers watched in horror as the field burst into flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there's maybe two chapters to go to see how it all turns out.  
> Notes:  
> *The historical coat of Arms for Translyvania can be found here if you're curious: https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/b1/Coa_Transylvania_Country_History_v4.svg/220px-Coa_Transylvania_Country_History_v4.svg.png
> 
> **As for the history referred to there, Stephen Bathory (yes from that Bathory family) sat as a royal judge in that area in the late 1500's. He died after opening his castle doors to a cousin in rebellion. As he was clearly sympathetic, it is not outside the realm of possibility that he was seeking funds of his own for a larger rebellion. His sister, Elizabeth Bathory, is also alive during this time period (she dies in 1614). For those who don't know, she infamous for killing dozens, possibly hundreds, of young girls and bathing in their blood to keep herself young and beautiful.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I had already posted this but since I apparently mucked that up, have another chapter. Only one more to go...
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are so very appreciated. Thank you everyone.

 

Fire had a way of making everything clear, d'Artagnan noted absently as he lunged forward. If he allowed his memory to do so, he could pull up every detail of that night so long ago when a broken man fed himself to the flames and, more recently, he could still feel the heaviness of Athos in his arms as he pulled them away from a burning manor. He was certain too that many years from now, if he lived that long, he would always remember the sight of the early fall leaves bursting into flame at the kiss of the fallen torch, devouring the surrounding plants. 

 

Emotion gave way to deadly purpose and he covered the ground with a speed greater than any he'd been able to summon before, flinging his cloak on the flames even as the others put their swords to good use. He beat at the flames with the coarse wool, desperate to save the plants, until he heard a hoarse voice shout his name. 

 

D'Artagnan rolled but not quickly enough - he felt pain blossom over his hip as a blade kissed his side but he kept rolling smoothly to his feet. He had no time to worry about the injury or the swiftly spreading flames. The wound from the night at the inn made little difference to his opponent's unnatural speed as he came at him. Their swords clashed as they danced around each other, flames licking at their feet. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, d'Artagnan could see Aramis and Porthos squared off against the leader while Athos brought both sword and main guache against the second. The flames grew around them, lighting the dark field, and it could have been a trick of the light but Athos' sword blurred in his sight, parry and riposte moving so swiftly that, across the field, d'Artagnan could not track them. Not that he could pay attention long. He could feel the heat of the flames through his breeches even as he parried a blow so strong his bones jarred with the impact. 

 

He twisted out from under the blade and darted around, other hand going to his main guache. In a deliberately flashy move, d'Artagnan started the great swinging crescent of the butterfly strike. The trick worked as he intended and the moment he felt his opponent's sword meet his blade, he twisted again, thrusting the main gauche to its hilt in his chest, right into his heart. 

 

Even as his enemy was falling, d'Artagnan was whirling about dropping main gauche for harbequois in case the others needed aid. But Porthos was winding his schiava around a thinner blade so that Aramis, bloody cut on his forehead, finally got a good enough angle to blow a hole through the chest of the leader. Athos continued in a whirlwind of motion and, even across the field, d'Artagnan could hear it when his blade sunk into his opponent's neck, biting so deeply and so finally that he cleaved their enemy's head from his shoulders. 

 

Knowing his friends were safe, d'Artagnan practically dove for the flames, beating them back as if he could extinguish them by sheer force of will. 

 

"D'Artagnan!"

 

The voice went unheard and he shrugged off the hand on his shoulder without noticing. His gloves were turning black from the heat and the flame but he kept beating at the ground around the quickly blackening flower, trying to get to the precious plant in the center.

 

"D'Artagnan!" 

 

More shouting, another hand, but nothing made it through; it wasn't even clear that d'Artagnan realized he was speaking himself, an endless mantra of "no, no, no, no, no..." falling from his lips like a prayer.

 

"D'Artagnan." This voice didn't shout but it was one d'Artagnan would never deny. Athos' hand closed on his shoulder, "d'Artagnan, stop." He crouched down behind the Gascon, pulling him further away from the flames. "Stop." The heartbroken look d'Artagnan gave him was more painful than any illness or curse and he slid his hand down to encircle the younger man's wrist, ignoring how his own hand trembled. "Stop."

 

"But Athos..." d'Artagnan kept struggling but Athos threw an arm around his chest, sitting back to pull the younger man even further from the flames and holding him with an unbreakable grip. "I can't..." he choked on the words.

 

"Don't you understand?" Athos hissed, giving into the urge to shake him just slightly before drawing his back tight towards his chest again and laying his head on the back of his shoulder. "I can't lose you either."

 

D'Artagnan shook like he might fall apart at any moment, "But the emundad... Athos... you..."

 

"I'm with you," the older man murmured. The flames flickered around them, dying out from the combined assault of Porthos' and Aramis' cloaks and a lack of fuel, the sparse covered ground under the trees insufficient to sustain such a fierce blaze for long. "I'm with you." He held on tightly to the younger man as the fire died to ash around them and the quiet of the night set in. 

 

**

 

The plants were gone. The ground covered in ash. The desolation so soon after such hope weighed on all four men like an almost physical presence as  Porthos beat the last of the flames out. As soon as the flames were out, d'Artagnan was moving, sifting through the ashes, Aramis and Porthos right behind him. 

 

He knocked away the burnt torch as he scrabbled through the remains. Dirt and ash stained his hands where the burnt leather of his gloves gave way until they grasped a hard lump. For a moment, relief washed over d'Artagnan but the root crumbled between his fingers. His stomach dropped and he rested back on his heels, uncomprehending as the blackened lumps fell to the ground. 

 

Before despair could break through, Porthos gave a shout. Three pairs of eyes turned towards him. He held out a glove and underneath the dirt and the grime, they could see a single small root with skin a pale shade of orange. The emundad. 

 

"We have to get it back to the King." Athos' voice was hoarse but firm. 

 

"Athos..." d'Artagnan's voice trailed off as he looked between the older man and the single root. "What about you?" 

 

Pale skin shining in the scant light, Athos shook his head, "The King comes first." 

 

"We could split it between you," Porthos offered, already measuring it with his hands as if he was going to break it. 

 

"No," it was Aramis who spoke, though reluctance was clear on his face. "Based on what d'Artagnan said, it took the whole root just for one. All but the very end of the root."

 

Athos swallowed hard, shaking his head, something solemn and grave in the set of his mouth. "The king comes first."

 

Emotions chased themselves across d'Artagnan's face too fast for any of them to read. He looked to Aramis' tight lipped frown and at the root in Porthos' grip. He was breathing fast, like he was still fighting, and his eyes shut tight for a long moment. When he opened them, he wouldn't meet any of their eyes and there was a wildness in his. D'Artagnan forced his breath to slow as his eyes tried to focus on something. _Pay attention..._

 

His eyes widened suddenly and he scrambled forward, ignoring the exclamations of the others. He reached out to touch a finger to a tiny white flower, half obscured by the soot, laying at the edge of the field. Dimly, he recalled seeing a smaller plant beyond the others - a seedling like one of the others had started reaching out - but as his hands dug through the dirt and grasped something solid, d'Artagnan didn't care about the why of it, just about the glimpse of pale orange through his fingers as he pulled a small nub of a root from the ground. 

 

It wasn't much, barely the size of the iron balls he carried for his harbeqouis, but it wasn't burnt. He held it up, a desperate sort of hope swirling behind his eyes, "Aramis! Is it enough?"

 

The medic was by his side in an instant, Porthos only a beat behind him. Comparing the two roots, the marksman chewed his mustache, "I don't know." He tilted his head, eyeing the two roots with sharp eyes, "It's less than a third of the other. Maybe since he's already been exposed... but that could work against us as well..." All three looked at Athos as he came to join them, his own expression unreadable and pale, pain etched in his every movement and determination bled into Aramis' voice, "But it's certainly worth a try." 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we've reached the end of the Long Road. I hope you enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we've reached the end of the Long Road. Thank you for travelling it with me and for all the encouragement throughout. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. I hope you enjoy.

 

After finding the second root, they had stayed in the clearing only long enough for Aramis to prepare the smaller root. Athos had tried to object - had tried to preserve even the second root for the King in case one was not enough - but the others would not hear of it. More valuable time would have been lost to the argument except Aramis pointed out that using it on Athos would allow them to be sure that the root would actually help and wouldn't harm the King further. Given that d'Artagnan seemed ready to force it down his throat if necessary, it was fortunate for all of them that Athos gave in gracefully. 

 

The ride back was a blur of motion. Two of the horses gave out but the Musketeers could spare no time for kindness as they gathered new ones and raced back to the King's hunting lodge. Versailles was closer than Paris, but only slightly, and they had no idea how the King had held out in their absence. 

 

Athos chewed wafer thin slices of the root as they rode at Aramis' direction and he could feel the weight of d'Artagnan's gaze at every moment. Aramis had wanted to do more to it - find some way to extract more from it to make sure nothing was lost - but duty to the King had won out and he had settled for giving him the thin slices at long intervals theorizing that it had to be fully absorbed before more could be added. They had tied Athos to the horse for the ride and there had been no more seizures but his muscles still cramped horribly. At least once it had nearly cost him his seat but d'Artagnan had been there before he could do more than sway. D'Artagnan seemed to always be there. Are you with me?

 

The root tasted bitter but Athos chewed it anyway, leaning further into his horses' neck for as much speed as they could muster as the day waned. I'm with you. 

 

Up ahead, a rustic wooden gate arched over the road, torches illuminating a pair of perimeter guards in a very familiar uniform. They'd arrived at Versailles. 

**

 

The hunting lodge was chaos. Dr. Devareaux must have had the guards on the look out for them because as soon as the inseparables reigned in, there were grooms to attend to their poor horses. And it was clear why as soon as they approached the building. 

 

The building was no palace, but it was a royal hunting lodge and could house not only the King but all his attendants and a small entourage with ease. But despite its size, they could hear shouting echoing down the firelit halls and out the door. The Musketeers exchanged worried looks and broke into a run. 

 

"Your majesty, please!" the doctor's voice climbed registers Aramis had not thought it capable of as the old physician and several footmen tried fruitlessly to corral their monarch. 

 

Louis himself was almost unrecognizable - the plump softness of his usual decadence eaten away and leaving behind a pale wraith of a man, joints swollen, snarling even as he doubled over in pain. The doctor tried to help him back to the bed but the King outright growled at the motion and swiped at him with hands that were more claws than fingers. "Please sire!" Dodging, the doctor lost his footing and fell to the floor, scrambling out of the way. 

 

A short nod from Aramis and Porthos burst through the waiting footmen into the room. He spun the King around into a bear hug, pinning his arms to his side, and latching Louis' arms tight against his own stomach as he brought the man up against Porthos' chest. The monarch thrashed in his grip and Porthos grunted as his heel connected with the big man's shin. "I can't hold him long, 'Mis!" 

 

"Sire, we have medicine!" Aramis shouted as he pulled out the jealously guarded root. He'd sliced it when he'd done Athos' before tucking it away in the darkest cloth they had - Porthos' dark blue headscarf. 

 

It was a long tense moment as the words penetrated the panic in the young ruler's eyes but they locked on the fabric and, slowly, some small mote of reason returned. "A cure?" he panted, but he'd stopped struggling against Porthos. 

 

Aramis' dark eyes slanted over to Athos where the Lieutenant was guarding the door. Pain still traced his features and he remained as pale as the rising moon but there'd been no seizures for hours... In the end, Aramis temporized, "Relief." 

 

It was enough for Louis, slumping against Porthos as the big man moved him towards his bed. With the King subsided, Doctor Devearaux scrambled to his feet. "You found it? What do we need to do?"

 

Aramis was already taking out the first slice - so thin the light of the candle could be seen through it. "Pray, doctor." He handed the slice to the King and laid the rest on the bedside table, "And settle in for a very long night."

)**)

 

"You should be resting." D'Artagnan didn't even dignify Athos' statement with a response but the dark circles under his eyes were beginning to look permanent and Athos couldn't resist trying again, despite the fever born shivers wracking his body. "Just because I'll be eating this damn root all night, doesn't mean you have to stay up with me." 

 

"Shut up, Athos," the younger man said shortly, but his hand was gentle as it soothed over his forehead. D'Artagnan's eyes slanted sideways for a moment before he sighed and Athos tensed at the heaviness of it. "We're not leaving you."

 

"Or have you forgotten?" Aramis' voice was colored with exhaustion as he shuffled into the room, easing himself on to the settee as if he were a much older man. "All for one and all that." 

 

"The king?" Porthos asked from his station by the door. He chewed lazily on some dried meat but there was no mistaking the tenseness of his frame. 

 

Aramis pressed a hand to his forehead as if the outside pressure could do anything to ease him, "The doctor is staying with him. We're agreed that the only reason it would have taken so long as d'Artagnan remembers is if it needed to be absorbed and slowly to take effect so he proceeds on the same course as Athos. Thin slices, chewed entirely, with pauses between. He's had no more seizures since he started with it and that's a good sign. We don't dare risk giving him anything else until it's done."

 

None of them mentioned Athos' condition - the cramps that had turned to sweats and now to fever. The fire had been built up high enough that d'Artagnan and Porthos both had abandoned their jerkins and rolled up their shirtsleeves but still Athos shivered with only a single thin slice of the small root left for him to eat. D'Artagnan held him close, as tight as he dared, trying to share what comfort he could with wet cloths but fine lines of pain still traced themselves over the comte's features. "What can I do?" The whisper was light, barely a breath of air. 

 

Cramps rippled his muscles as Athos closed his eyes against the pain, "Talk." The Gascon gaped at him for a moment and, as if sensing the confusion and refusal, Athos reached up a hand unerringly to grip his wrist. "Please, d'Artagnan. Just talk. About anything. Tell me..." He grit his teeth against a new wave of pain and squeezed.

 

Desperation, wild and reckless, raced over d'Artagnan's face as he cast about for anything to say, anything to distract Athos from what he was going through. He was no traubador to come up with fantastical stories off the top of his head. He could read but most of his reading had been practical - dull histories and account books. Nothing that Athos wouldn't have read himself. Nothing that was worthy of the trust Athos was giving him. Except...

 

Clearing his throat, d'Artagnan took a deep breath, placing the last of the emundad on Athos' tongue. And, eyes fixed on the flame of the fire, in a low steady voice, he told them the story of his people. The story that his grandfather had told him that long ago night at the fire. How the Romany had been lauded by a king, but had wasted his gifts and received exile in exchange. He reached the point where his grandfather had been interrupted that night and swallowed hard but kept going. 

 

Fire flickered in his memory and before his eyes as d'Artagnan finished the tale, even as Athos burned in his arms. He took a cloth from the water basin next to him and wiped it over Athos' brow, letting the cool water wash over him. The cloth warmed almost instantly and he put it back in the basin, trailing his fingers through the cool water. _Wodna zena,_  he pleaded deep in his mind, _please.._. D'Artagnan lifted his hand, sprinkling drops of water over Athos' forehead. Emotions tangled in his chest, overwhelming him, and he leaned over almost double until he could press his cheek against Athos' damp hair, turning just enough to ghost his lips across the older man's forehead before he straightened again, the swell of emotions beat back within his breast 

 

Blue eyes were watching him, startled but fond, and suddenly, d'Artagnan knew what he wanted to say, knew what story he could give Athos, and the others, like this. He turned dark eyes back to the fire and began to speak. "Grandfather took me home after the mullo." Athos stilled beneath his hands, minute tremors his only movement. "He was afraid. But I..." d'Artagnan quirked something that might have been a grin had it been a shade less bitter. "I was so proud." He shook his head. "I was so stupid."

 

He could feel Aramis and Porthos draw closer, and Athos' grip on his wrist kept him grounded. "The others in the village... They had suspected. But my mother had been careful and there was no proof." A wry smirk twisted his lips, absent of any humor. "Until I came back. I was so desperate to be one of them. So desperate to be accepted..." He trailed off for a long moment and the others nearly held their breath in response. "I told." He tilted his head ruefully, still not looking at any of them. "I _bragged_. I flaunted the things I'd learned over the summer and it didn't take long for word to get around." 

 

"I thought it had been bad before," d'Artagnan went on, oblivious to the horror dawning on Aramis' face or the deep sadness creasing Porthos'. He felt only the steady pressure of Athos hand on his wrist. "I became absolutely outcast, the lowest form of life. And when word reached the nearby villages..." He took another deep breath, "There are worse things than expulsion. The villagers banded together for a purge. Found the camp." Shadows danced on the wall as the fire flickered and crackled. Dark eyes followed the shadows for a long moment before closing. "We could never figure out if anyone escaped. There were so many bodies. They hung grandfather. Killed most of the clan. Burned or took anything of value." His lip curled, "And justified it by calling them thieves." D'Artagnan shook his head, the bitterness draining from him, leaving him empty. "I never spoke of it again." 

 

_Until you._  The words went unspoken but all three men heard them. Aramis hung his head, letting his curls block his face and Porthos' eyes shone with tears. Athos said nothing, but tugged on d'Artagnan's wrist until he could press it against his breastbone. 

 

"Are you with me?"

 

It was an unexpected enough response that it startled a smile out of the Gascon as his eyes came back down to Athos', seeing a million things the older man couldn't say and none of the things he'd feared in his gaze. "That's my line." He took a great shuddering breath, relieved and exhausted all at once as Aramis and Porthos looked on proudly. "I'm with you." He watched as Athos swallowed he last of the root slice he'd been chewing. The last of the emundad they had. "Stay with me?" 

 

Despite everything, Athos smiled, "Always." 

 

**

 

It was a beautiful day. The garrison courtyard rang with the clash of metal on metal and as Treville leaned forward, the rough wood of the balcony rail catching the fabric of his doublet. D'Artagnan's laughter echoed throughout the courtyard, drawing the Captain's attention to the corner of the yard. There, in the shadow of the barracks, Athos and the younger man were darting around each other, their swords teasingly glancing as one or the other ducked out of the way in a deadly ballet. The gleam of polished steel blurred in his sight as Athos lunged forward suddenly, causing d'Artagnan to twist and vault out of the way. 

 

Treville didn't turn as he felt the warm weight as Aramis joined him at the railing, a smile quirking his lips. "Is it my imagination," Treville drawled, "Or has Athos gotten... faster? Possibly stronger as well?" 

 

Aramis' expression didn't change beyond a widening of the eyes that he mistakenly believed conveyed innocence. "He's certainly healed well given everything that happened." The medic leaned on the railing as well, "And he's been working hard on getting back into form." 

 

A slim eyebrow arched. "Is that so? Working hard?" Treville's voice was a dary as a desert. "That's what's behind this, eh?"

 

Aramis spread his hands and couldn't help but grin as Porthos' voice drifted up to them - taking bets on the sparring match as usual. "He's been working **very** hard." 

 

Treville outright snorted. "And should I suspect the rest of you to start working that hard?" 

 

The medic grinned as he pushed himself off the bannister. "It seems unlikely, sir." _Unless we find more of the emundad._  Aramis contemplated. 

 

The sardonic look on Treville's face was a familiar one but the Commander was smiling. And the smile only broadened as the laughter of his men reached his ears when the match ended in the inevitable draw. "Just as well. The King will run out of medals for you soon enough." He jerked his chin towards the yard, "Go join your brothers, Aramis." The medic gave a quick bow before striding away and Treville turned back to the railing, watching as d'Artagnan and Athos clasped hands, the grip lingering just slightly too long, and he could almost hear the now familiar words.

 

_Are you with me?_

_Always._

And all through the yard, the wind whispered, _Pay attention, little love._

The end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the seed for this story - which actually came to me before the other two parts - started with this article:  
> http://www.nytimes.com/1985/05/31/us/rare-disease-proposed-as-cause-for-vampires.html
> 
> A rare disease which was proposed as the root for the legend of vampires. It seems unlikely in truth - this disorder/disease is so rare. But that concept - disease vs curse - fascinated me. Now the emundad is my own creation but, in the end, is it the emundad that saves Athos by curing a disease? or d'Artagnan's offering to the water woman that broke a curse? 
> 
> Porphyria:  
>  \- symptoms can include: abdominal pain, chest pain, increased heart rate and blood pressure, limb and back pian, muscle weakness, tingling, loss of sensation, cramping, vomiting, constipation, personality changes or mental disorders, agitation confusion and seizures  
>  \- long term symptoms: chronic pain, depression kidney damage, liver cancer  
>  \- skin related symptoms (occur upon exposure to sun): blisters, itching, swelling of skin, pain, increased hair growth, darkening and thickening of skin  
>  \- acute porpheria can be triggered by infections, drinking alcohol  
>  \- left unchecked, symptoms can lead to seizures, coma, hallucinations, paralysis

**Author's Note:**

> So this is subtle and has no real effect on the plot, but it's more of the underlying culture bits that I've been putting in so I'm totally sharing it. Apples are traditionally a food of love. Superstitions abound about them including with the Rom. Some tribes at least hold that one way of questioning fate in love is to slice an apple in half. If you can do so without cutting the seeds, your true love wish will be granted.


End file.
